


With Bated Breath

by IMtrinity



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 135,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMtrinity/pseuds/IMtrinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Lestrade stood for a moment in front of the narrow bed, seething silently before giving in, angrily pulling up the spare chair and dragging it to the bedside. He forced himself to sit lest he found himself choking the kid to death. His eyes spared a glance at the monitors surrounding the bed, working overtime to keep Sherlock stable and alive. Then his eyes turned to the pale face, nearly as white as the pillow he lay upon and he found his fists clenching.

"You stupid, stupid idiot." He shook his head and turned away, too damn tired to do anything else.

"Well hello to you too, Inspector." The voice was hardly more than a raspy whisper but Lestrade would recognize it anywhere. No one else could sound like Sherlock, even on the cusp of death. He whipped his head back and glared daggers at the younger man. Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes yet, but Lestrade saw his throat working, clearly parched and uncomfortable. He found no pity within himself.

"How dare you lie there and joke, you utter bastard. How dare you even speak to me after what you just put me through?" He didn't even realize he had raised his voice if not for the wince on Sherlock's face. He took a deep breath and started again.

"You were minutes from death, Sherlock. They weren't even sure-" and he found himself on his feet pacing, and pacing. Anything to keep from looking at the indifference he knew he would find on Sherlock's face. He strode over to the large window (nice view, private suite, surely Mycroft's doing.) He hadn't slept in over a day. Exhaustion crawled through his body and yet he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep a wink without worrying over Sherlock. _What else is new,_ he wondered?

It seemed that all he did lately was worry. There were his cases, and then there was Sherlock. There was the prim, sarcastic, brilliant genius of a man, and there was the junkie waif in a £700 coat with not a care in the world for anyone or anything. And this was the third time now he had nearly given Lestrade a heart attack in the past year. He was so done with all this. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and stared aimlessly out into the darkness.

"I can't have this anymore, Sherlock. I gave you a chance. Hell, numerous chances. I broke hundreds of rules for you and ignored ninety percent of the insults to my crew. But not this, Sherlock. No way. I'm done, and so are you." He finally dared to turn around and found dull, steely eyes regarding him. Lestrade made his way back to the chair, sighing as he sank down into it. The padding wasn't very thick and the back too rigid but he felt like he could pass out easily at any given moment.

"Why, Sherlock?" he said softly. "You're too smart for this, and you know it. Why do you do this to yourself?" He didn't really expect an answer, and after a brief staring match, Sherlock turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling. Lestrade wearily rubbed at his eyes and made to stand.

"It helps me."

Lestrade froze and gaped at the younger man, incredulous. "Jesus, Sherlock, how does this"-he waved his arms around the hospital room-"help you in any way? Please explain it to me, I'm finding it very difficult to understand you right now."

Eventually, gradually, Sherlock turned and glared at Lestrade, though it lacked the usual effect, what with his pallor resembling that of a corpse and sweat creasing his brow.

"It helps turn it off," he ground out through clenched teeth. Then, suddenly angry with his admission he reverted to glaring up at the ceiling. Lestrade just stared in confusion for a moment before the phrase started to make any sense. And then he felt like complete shit and whatever remark he was going to make died on his lips. He looked down at his lap, feeling a major migraine coming on.

He should have known. Should have realized. This didn't happen because Sherlock was bored. This happened because he tried to 'fix' his brain, if only temporarily. How many times had Lestrade heard that phrase? "I can't just turn it on or off, Lestrade," he'd say as if the older man was dimwitted. Sherlock's mind, while clever and brilliant and informative, just never rested. There was no lull and sensory overload happened quite often. Sherlock's never told him in so many words, but knowing him as long as he had, it wasn't hard to deduce. The poor kid just wanted a respite. He just picked the wrong outlet. And Lestrade felt like the biggest prick for screaming at him. He needed a moment. Luckily (or not) for him, Mycroft Holmes took that moment to walk through the door.

He gave the Inspector a nod before turning calculating eyes on his younger brother. "Brother mine, we should just name this room in your honour." And that's when Lestrade took his leave. He needed caffeine for his head and went searching for the nearest vending machine.

He was finishing his second cup when he made his way back to Sherlock's room. The hallways were quiet, only a few nurses scurrying around. So it wasn't so hard to hear the argument coming from the closed doors. Lestrade paused, ready to turn around but it was Sherlock's voice that had him pinned to the spot.

He knew Sherlock never got along with his brother, though the reasons for that varied from one month to the next. He wouldn't go so far as to say he 'hated' him, but he never discussed his disdain when in his presence. Only now there was a pleading quality to his voice that Lestrade could not ignore. Leaning closer to the door he shamelessly eavesdropped.

"I am sorry Sherlock but you really have left me with no choice."

"You have a choice, Mycroft."

"Oh yes of course. Let the hospital release you back to your drug den of a flat and wait for the next phone call from...possibly the morgue this time." Lestrade flinched at the detached coldness of that voice.

"I won't go back to that place, Mycroft, I can't go back there. It's worse than torture. I'm asking you-"

"No. No, Sherlock. Not this time. This time was just a tad out of my comfort zone, you see. And I am _this_ close to calling mummy. No, you will go to the rehab centre and this time you will stay there for as long as necessary and only when I am satisfied with your progress will we discuss your further course of action."

There was silence for a moment, and Lestrade had to strain to hear more.

"Mycroft, don’t do this. I will beg if I- is that what you want to hear? I will fucking beg if I must. Please, anywhere but there. I can't- I'm not going to make it this time."

"Sherlock, please stop being melodramatic." And that's when Lestrade found himself pushing the door open. All conversation ceased but Lestrade's eyes were glued to Sherlock, fury radiating off him in hot waves.

"What's this about then," he asked Mycroft.

He heard a sigh as the older Holmes turned his attention to the Inspector. "My juvenile addict of a brother has an issue with returning to rehab. Something that he currently has no control over. So I'm afraid your detective days are over for quite a while," he finished to either Lestrade or Sherlock. "Now, Sherlock do pay attention. I will make a phone call in the morning to have you evaluated and moved by week's end."

Sherlock said nothing, and that worried Lestrade more than a full out screaming fit. In fact, Sherlock refused to look at either his brother or Lestrade, preferring the company of the nearest wall, his fists clenching tight around the sheets the only indicator of the turmoil happening within. And without even thinking, Lestrade blurted out: "I'll take him."

Both heads simultaneously turned in his direction. One was unreadable while the other looked on, momentarily stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft said. "What do you mean, you'll take him?"

Now that the words were out, he wished for absolutely anything to take them back. He didn't even know what possessed him to open his damn mouth. But now two pairs of confused eyes were gawking at him and he needed to get his act together. "Sherlock. I'll take him. Home, that is. He can stay with me until-" His palms were getting sweaty and for some reason Mycroft's silent gaze unnerved him more than anything. He straightened his back and started again.

"Look, it's obvious the kid needs help, yea? Well he's not going to cooperate much if you send him away to a place that frankly, didn't work in the past. I don't care how much this facility costs. We both know Sherlock well enough to know he's not going to cooperate if he doesn't want to. So give him to me. He can stay with me and he'll stay clean. And he'll do it because if he ever wants to set foot in another crime scene again, he'll bloody well do as he's told." He started off speaking to Mycroft but by the end his eyes landed on Sherlock's and boy was he not happy. The glare was both incredulous and scandalized, magnified tenfold. Lestrade ignored it for the time being and turned his attention back to Mycroft, who was regarding the man stoically.

Lestrade crossed his arms. Defense mechanism yeah, but frankly he was tired as fuck and just wanted this night over with.

"This is a very serious offer, Inspector. I do hope you realize the implications that come with it." Lestrade shrugged. "Not my first time dragging this guy's ass out of the gutter."

"How colourful."

"I'm fucking _right here_. How dare you discuss me as if I were a child," Sherlock's voice finally rang out in all its fury. But Lestrade's eyes were still locked on Mycroft, who didn't even acknowledge the outburst.

Finally, the older brother took out his mobile and typed something in before placing it back inside his suit pocket. He smiled(or what passed for a smile) at Lestrade. "I will consider your offer, Inspector. But I will also allow you to reconsider yours. My brother is manipulative and destructive to both himself and others. You have a good standing at work and a potential to further yourself and I would hate to have you throw everything away all for the sake of misplaced nobility. I am perfectly aware of all you have done for my brother and that is why I am amenable to this arrangement. However I do not have high hopes of your success. He needs constant monitoring and supervision, hence my need for round the clock care at the Centre and with your workload I can't see how this will work. Sherlock will be staying here for at least forty eight hours so I beg you, in that time, to reconsider." He said nothing else as he passed Lestrade on his way out, nor did he linger for a goodbye at his brother's bedside. Finally it was just them two again, and Lestrade released the breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

"God, I thought you were intense," he quipped, but Sherlock was having none of it.

"Get out, Lestrade."

"Sherlock-"

But the younger man's fingers were already on the red call button and before Lestrade knew what was happening a nurse had made her way to the room.

"Mr. Holmes, glad to see-"

"Get rid of him," was all he said and the nurse turned apologetic eyes towards Lestrade. And god did that sting. He didn't even give her the chance to ask him to leave before he had his arms raised in a placating gesture, before briskly walking away from Sherlock's betrayed glare. As soon as he left the hospital he hailed a cab to get him home, passing out on the sofa shortly after he got inside his flat.

***

Lestrade woke to a pounding head and sun heating his face. He swore at forgetting to close his damn blinds last night and despised the weather for being so cheery when he felt like absolute shite.

He didn't even get a two minute respite before his mind veered back to the hospital and to Sherlock. He swore the kid was going to give him an ulcer one of these days. He couldn't remember the last time he ate or how long he stayed at the hospital.

He took out some cereal and a bowl and ate it without tasting a bite. His head still ached but this time it was probably from overthinking. No matter how much he tried to contemplate, rationalize or compartmentalize, he just didn’t _get_ Sherlock. Even after a year of seeing the younger man on a weekly basis, he barely knew a thing about him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew Sherlock was a genius; had never met anyone like him before, nor ever will again. He knew Sherlock got bored easily. He knew Sherlock didn't do social niceties. Hell, the man didn't do quite a lot. He knew he had a very intense older brother who apparently let Sherlock get away with quite a bit, based on the fact that Sherlock mysteriously had no criminal record, which Lestrade had to laugh at seeing how many times Sherlock spent in a jail cell upon first having met.

He knew he needed him. And that thought scared him.

His mind wandered away from him then, as he recalled initially encountering Sherlock, not so very long ago. He could hardly forget the first time he allowed Sherlock in on one of his crime scenes. Well, as opposed to Sherlock sneaking in like he previously had done.

He'd never forget the first time that scrawny kid straight out of Uni, with the crazed raven hair opened his mouth and said, "It was the nanny, obvious," in that posh drawl of his and Lestrade had loathed him instantly. And even after he proceeded to insult every crew member in his immediate vicinity, stalking off, cigarette flicking off his finger without bothering to stomp it out afterwards, Lestrade had saved his mobile number to memory.

Because before the scathing commentary and the insolent stares, and the abhorrent attitude, he had solved Lestrade's case in under half an hour, using what little evidence they had to work with. And he managed it all without an ounce of bravado or heroics. And every word that came out of his mouth made perfect sense and all Lestrade could think was, _what the fuck just happened here?_ And from that moment on he wanted to know more. More about Sherlock, more about his methods. Just...more.

Sherlock expected his next call, and the call after that. He showed up, ignoring all but Lestrade and proceeded to dazzle everyone on scene, though not a word of approval was uttered. And just like that he was gone again. It was on the next call that Lestrade realized what he was up against.

Sherlock arrived to the crime scene an hour after Lestrade called and one glance at the younger man had the Inspector dragging him by the wrist to the nearest alleyway. He practically slammed Sherlock against the brick building, livid beyond anything he could remember. "Are you insane? What the hell were you thinking coming to my crime scene coked up?" And sure enough Sherlock leveled his eyes (bright, so bright, pupils dilated) and sighed in clear annoyance, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. "Don't be dull, Lestrade. What I do in my own time in no way concerns you."

Lestrade stared, wide-eyed at the insolent twenty four year old and sneered, "I should take you in right now, you little shit. Spend a night in lock-up, see how that fits you."

Sherlock had the gall to roll his eyes. "You need me here or you wouldn't have called. Every wasted second here ruins your chance of solving this so you either let me see the body or I can leave. Which shall it be, Inspector?"

Lestrade could feel his fingers reaching for his cuffs, and for a brief moment entertained the notion of throwing the pompous brat in jail. But this was a particularly perplexing murder. He couldn't believe he was even contemplating this, but. He stood back from Sherlock, glaring the whole time. Sherlock made to move but Lestrade shot his arm out and grabbed him harshly by the wrist. "If I hear so much as a word from you to anyone on my team, you're done, understand?" Sherlock coldly stared at his restrained wrist and whispered, eyes glittering, "Perfectly." Twenty minutes later and high as a kite he had all the details laid out, and their suspect caught two days after that.

Nobody liked Sherlock. Not Anderson, his longtime forensics expert, not Donovan, his partner of  two years, and not a soul from his faithful crew had ever uttered a positive word regarding their new collaborator. Even Lestrade, patient and understanding as he was could barely stand to be in the same room with him for more than ten minutes.

Sherlock just rubbed everyone the wrong way. He was arrogant, and obnoxious and darn right childish at times. Which was why Lestade couldn't get the man out of his head. Because for all the negative, Sherlock was a Pandora's Box to Lestrade. He knew things most people didn't, and for all his disdain towards the generous populous, he seemed to understand people better that anyone. And yet, Lestrade couldn't get a read on Sherlock. So one random day he decided to pay the man a visit. A quick computer check provided the address, and realizing it was a stone's throw away from Bart's Hospital he hailed a cab to Montague Street.

Upon first inspection, certainly _not_ what he was expecting as he stepped onto the walk in front of the block of flats.

Climbing up the three flights proved tedious, especially it being the middle of August and him in his suit and tie, damn it. He brought his hand up and banged on the door, hoping the kid was actually home. He went to wipe his damp brow but the door flung open, revealing a very confused and suspicious Sherlock. So, apparently someone was not used to receiving visitors.

"'Lo, Sherlock."

"Lestrade. What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice, rather than his habitual disdain.

"I had some spare time, thought I'd stop by. May I?" Lestrade found himself walking past the younger man without actually being invited in. He heard the loud sigh behind him as the door closed. His eyes roamed, eagerly. The flat was small, but respectable, or it could have been if not for the absolute clutter littering nearly every surface. With a quick sweep of his eyes Lestrade noticed everything from books to boxes, a microscope, cutting board, chess board, a violin (hmm, surprise) and a mutilated body part(double take, hope it's from an animal).  

"Wow," was all he could manage. Then he noticed the oppressive heat, his clothing sticking to him uncomfortably. Sherlock was wearing loose lounge pants and a plain gray tee, his hair in absolute disarray thanks to the humidity. He was also barefoot.

"Is there a legitimate purpose for this visit, Lestrade? I am actually quite busy with an experiment." He did in fact head over to the microscope, ignoring Lestrade in favour of...whatever he was experimenting on. He was using the tiny kitchen table as his lab surface apparently and the two dining chairs as additional junk holders. Lestrade walked over to take a look. "I didn't know you were into all this," he said, gesturing at the multitude of slides and the unidentified body part.

"There is quite a lot, I imagine, you do not know, Lestrade," Sherlock quipped without glancing up. Lestrade, too hot to contemplate a fight at the moment gestured with his head to the violin sitting on the sofa.

"You play?" Now Sherlock did look up, his eyes narrowed to annoyed slits. "Obviously."

Lestrade quirked his lips. "Any good?" Sherlock stared at him as if he were holding onto his last ounce of patience. Then he closed his eyes and inhaled, stepping away from the microscope.

"Tea?"

"Sure, thanks." Sherlock strode over to the stove as Lestrade walked around the small space. The living/dining area was all connected. Besides the table and two chairs there was a two person sofa, a worn, low, leather armchair and a cluttered coffee table. No telly. Just a laptop sitting on the sofa next to the violin. Violin stand over by a large, but covered window. A closed door leading to what was probably the bathroom and then another open door which he assumed was the bedroom. He walked towards it nonchalant and glanced a peek. Sparse, and surprisingly clutter-free. Dressing gown thrown haphazardly on the bed and a few stacks of books on the nightstand, complete with ashtray.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade turned around to Sherlock, two feet away from him, steaming cup in hand. He raised his arms to offer the tea and that's when Lestrade glanced down at his bare arms. He knew what the man was and what he did. But covered under the expensive shirts and a too-large coat he could ignore it all the same. Now though it was staring him in the face.

Skin so fair it was all too easy to see the angry bruises and marks along his inner wrists. All too easy to tell that not all of them were from long ago. His whole being revolted and he swallowed deeply as he took the proffered tea from Sherlock's hands. Of course he was fooling no one. And blind, Sherlock was not.

"Why are you _here_ , Lestrade? Looking for something, perhaps?" His voice was steel and Lestrade nearly recoiled from the vehemence of it. Then he realized what Sherlock was implying.

"No! No, that's not why- I didn't come here...this isn't a bust, Sherlock. Calm down kay? I promise." That did absolutely nothing to placate the younger man who continued to glower at the Inspector, heat radiating off him in angry waves. Lestrade took a sip of tea. It wasn't terrible. "I promise, Sherlock. It’s just, I never knew where you lived and I just wanted to stop by," he finished lamely. "Always figured you'd be shacked up in some Soho flat or something," he tried for levity, failing miserably judging by the cold, unamused expression plastered on Sherlock's face.

"Your wife is having an affair with her co-worker."

And it was like a punch in the gut, sudden and brutal, no hope of deflecting or defending. He took a step back and covered up the harsh gasp threatening to explode from him. Instead, he took a deep breath and brought the cup up to his mouth. "I know," he said, and took a gulp, smacking his lips when he downed the scalding tea without really tasting it.

Sherlock's brows furrowed slightly and finally a smirk broke free. He sauntered over to the sofa, plopping down and nearly bouncing his laptop off the edge. He grabbed it last second and lazily plunked it on the coffee table. Then he burrowed in between the couch cushions, finally locating a flip phone triumphantly before flinging that as well onto the table.

"Sit, Lestrade. I despise looking up at people."

_Of course he does_ , thought Lestrade as he took a seat in the leather chair. It was surprisingly comfortable. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped around his cup. "How did you know?"

"Obvious," drolled Sherlock.

"Right. Changing the subject completely...How long you been living here?"

Sherlock opened his phone and proceeded to text someone. "Two years. Is this a social visit then? Pity, I thought you had something interesting for me." His fingers never stopped the clatter going on with his phone.

"I take it you don't get many visitors then." Lestrade said, already knowing the answer, and hence the complete lack of response. He noticed the large tomes on the coffee table. Chemistry texts of sort. Mathematics as well. All well beyond the scope of Lestrade's mind. Rubbish at it, always had been.

"I don't drink."

Lestrade looked back over to Sherlock, who continued his texting marathon. "Sorry?"

Sherlock sighed and threw his phone on the cushions, clearly finished with it. "I don't drink. Alcohol." At Lestrade's blank look he rolled his eyes and elaborated. "I'm assuming you wish to be offered some alcoholic beverage, as you are accustomed to it, upon visiting an acquaintance at their home. I don't drink and have none to offer."

Lestrade frowned. "Um, that's fine with me, I wasn't wondering, if that's what you were thinking." Then he scowled at the sudden smirk on Sherlock's face and flushed. "Are you insinuating something, Holmes? I'm not a drunkard, you know. I don't mind _a_ drink from time to time but don't sit there and think you know me." He was getting all worked up suddenly and not even realizing why. Sherlock continued to smirk, eyes roaming lazily over various points on Lestrade's body. Right then. Quite done with all that, thanks. He stood up, cringing as his dress shirt was practically glued to him at that point.

"Thanks for the tea." He left the flat without a word from Sherlock.

***

Lestrade called Sherlock the next week with another case and waited outside the home for Sherlock to jump out of the cab. The first thing he did was grab Sherlock by the chin and forced eye contact. Shocked, indignant, and murderous, yes. High, no. He let go, satisfied, and fled inside the house before Sherlock could even get a word in. Thankfully the younger man followed, never one to stand down from an interesting murder.

He solved that one too, to no one’s surprise but with the usual gripes from certain members of his team. Lestrade continued to call Sherlock, throughout the rest of the summer and well into the fall. And thankfully, Sherlock didn't show up high again.

On longer cases, Sherlock sometimes showed up to Lestrade's flat. And by showed up, that meant uninvited and without notice. The first couple of times Lestrade didn't mind all that much. He knew Sherlock was useful and that meant not only at crime scenes. His insights were helpful and he never minded that his flat was used as a base of operation. But the times after that were at random hours of the night, and Lestrade was starting to wonder if the man ever slept.

He looked drawn sometimes, and paler than usual. Lestrade never inquired after him since he knew Sherlock loathed all form of 'trivial questions' and he was really starting to detest the phrase, 'none of your damn business.' He never asked about the drugs because he never showed up to crime scenes high any more. But Lestrade wasn't an idiot, no matter how many times he's heard it from Sherlock's lips. The man was unstable and insufferable and Lestrade's own team was starting to grouse about his constant involvement in their cases. Sherlock lashed out at anything he deemed a pointless waste of time and breathe, and that included any offer of friendship or comradeship.

While his own team was starting to suffer, Lestrade actually fell into a somewhat secure place within Sherlock's private little bubble. The man ate up praise like a piranha gobbled prey. It wasn't often Lestrade got to glimpse it, and Sherlock did his best to hide it, but whenever the random, 'extraordinary', or 'I can't believe you spotted that from there' popped out of Lestrade's mouth, Sherlock would start, for the briefest of seconds and look away almost as if unused to such exaltation. And Lestrade would find himself grinning about it later in private, not able to fathom why it made him feel good. And then he met Sherlock's big brother.

A random visit to Sherlock's flat for assistance uncovered a gloom that had settled upon the whole place. The door was open and a man stood in the center of the room. Suit and tie. Briefcase and large umbrella. Expensive tailoring. Just leaving by the look of things, but a glance at Sherlock suggested this was not a social visit, nor even a pleasant one by the cold, unsavory glower the younger man was giving the mysterious older gentleman.

And then he turned and saw Lestrade. "Ah, Inspector. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Mycroft Holmes," he finished and extended his hand. Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock, then back at Mycroft. Slowly he offered his own hand. "Greg. Lestrade. So, um, brother?"

"Indeed," said the older man. "Very sorry I can't stay, Inspector. I have a previous engagement." Then he turned to look at Sherlock. "Do _try_ to stay out of further trouble, Sherlock." And then he was gone, big umbrella and all. Lestrade, blinking a few times, closed the door behind the other man. Then leaned back against it.

"So. You have a brother."

"What do you want, Lestrade?" Sherlock had apparently exhausted all his social supplies. He coughed and reached into his inner jacket pocket, producing a folded up piece of paper. He stepped over to the sitting area, and dropped it next to Sherlock on the sofa. "From the Collins case. Potential evidence I thought you might look at," he stated.

"Fine. Now get out." Sherlock was holding on tight to his violin, Lestrade noticed, fingers clenched so tight his knuckles appeared bloodless. He suddenly knew it wasn't a good time for any type of conversation, case related or not. So he merely said, "Right, okay then. Let me know if you find anything." And he left Sherlock that night, and came to regret it soon after.

***

He was livid. No, worse than livid, he was embarrassed, for Christ’s sake. Sherlock. A no-show, and two bodies a foot from Lestrade. His team ready in the wings to do their thing. For the past two hours. And not one single word from Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Sally was giving him that look again, all pursed lips and raised brows. He hated that look. It almost made him feel as if his mother was about to scold him for doing something stupid.

He crossed his arms and silently cursed Sherlock. He pressed re-dial and when it went straight to voicemail for the tenth time, he swore outright and pocketed his phone. He waved over Anderson and told him to get to work. He stepped away for a brief moment to collect his thoughts and wished for a cigarette. Too bad he gave that up six months ago. He sighed and went to check on the bodies.

Five hours later, three a.m., he was begging for his bed as he nearly crawled up to his second story flat. Before he even had his key in hand, his gun was out in a flash as his eyes instantly noticed the broken lock. He silently swore and unclicked the safety.

With one steady hand he reached for the knob and gently turned to open the door. Complete darkness greeted him and for a moment he let himself stand in one spot, just listening for the smallest of sounds. He heard it then, the tiniest of movements, coming from his bedroom. Both hands on his gun now he crept across his living room and froze in his tracks when he heard it, this time unmistakable.

"In here." And that voice he'd know anywhere. He released a shuddered breath and lowered his gun to his side. Still, cautious, he took the few remaining steps to his bedroom, his eyes not quite adjusted to the darkness. With shaky fingers he flicked on the light switch, and froze on the spot.

Sherlock sat on the floor, back lazily propped against the side of the bed, arms hanging limply on either side of him. His head lolled forward when the light came on, as if the harsh glow hurt to look at. Lestrade was by his side without knowing how he got there. Leaning down he carefully reached forward, grabbing Sherlock's chin and lifting his head back.

" _Christ_ , Sherlock..."

His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, while scratches marked the usually flawless skin. His neck was bruised down to his clavicle and that's when Lestrade noticed Sherlock was without his coat, just a rumpled half-buttoned dress shirt, spotted with blood and God knew what else. He absolutely reeked of sweat and-Lestrade's mind reeled- seminal fluid, more prominent staining continuing on his dark trousers.

Lestrade's heart thudded against his chest as he surged forward, grasping an arm, yanking it up, not caring for the shudder that passed through Sherlock's body. More bruising, ugly and fresh, and blood, dry now and there-mark upon vicious familiar mark and now he could feel the bile rising in his throat as he brought his arms around Sherlock's light frame, trying to get him standing.

"No, don't-" came the weak rasp and before he knew what hit him, Sherlock keeled over and vomited all over the carpeting. Lestrade instinctively kneeled next to the heaving figure, hand on back for support.

"Come on, Sherlock, you're ok. Come, let's get you seated." He reached his arm out to steady him as he stood up and the younger man grabbed for it, fingers cold and clammy.

"'Strade...don't feel-" and the grip faltered and Sherlock hit the floor before Lestrade could grab him.

"Jesus! Sherlock. Sherlock!" He flipped the man on his back and patted his cheek. Nothing. He was out cold. Lestrade thrust two fingers against his neck and hissed at the racing pulse, noticing the sickly pallor and damp brown hair. Swearing, he grabbed for his mobile and dialed.

At the hospital, Lestrade paced to and fro as he remembered the horrifying ambulance ride. He barely recalled all the questions the medics were throwing at him. If he was family, what was Sherlock's blood type, what drugs were in his system...

Lestrade remembered answering none if it. He ignored all calls for the first hour, just paced and paced, cursing Sherlock and hating the feeling in his gut he got every time he thought back to the lethargic, unfocused look on Sherlock's face. He automatically reached inside his jacket pocket for a cigarette, and found nothing. He silently swore. His phone rang again and he went to hit ignore again until he saw the number. It wasn't one he knew so he warily answered it. "What?"

"Inspector, I will be brief as I have some business to attend to before I am able to visit with my brother. The doctor has already been informed that you are to receive any and all information regarding Sherlock's status. I will be along when I can. And. Thank you for bringing him in. Good evening, Inspector."

Mycroft hung up and Lestrade was still standing with the phone to his ear. He was so exhausted and confused. Why was Mycroft not here _now_? This very minute. Where were Sherlock's parents? If Lestrade hadn’t come home when he did... It didn't even bear thinking. He just couldn't even deal with that thought right now. It was nearly dawn and he continued to pace, until finally the doctor came out to speak with him.

"Inspector Lestrade, I take it? Dr. Kohn". Lestrade shook his hand, nodding yes. "Mr. Holmes is resting now, though he is currently sedated and most likely won't be awake for several hours. He had numerous physical injuries, none of them life threatening, but still troubling. The bruising and swelling should fade within a few days. His arms are wrapped for the time being to prevent infection." He stopped and took a deep breath. "There were drugs found in his system; heroin, and traces of ecstasy."

Lestrade went numb, blood draining from his face. He remembered the smell and the stains, and he was afraid to even ask but he had to. "Was he...assaulted?" was all he could manage but the doctor seemed to be following. "Sexually? We don't believe so, no. We did an exam but found no evidence that any physical activities he engaged in were of a forced nature."

Lestrade nodded, relieved and strangely sad with the whole situation. "Will he be alright?"

Dr. Kohn sighed. "Mr. Holmes is a drug addict, Inspector. He will certainly be alright if he gets the proper care he needs. He isn't my first patient or last like this. I've seen it all. There were some not so lucky as this one. Also, he seems to be a bit malnourished. While that is the least of my worries, it's still something that should be addressed. In the meantime, you may see him if you'd like to- he's just been moved to his room."

Lestrade nodded again, and followed the doctor numbly through the large halls to Sherlock's room. He was situated in the private wing of the fourth floor, which seemed ostentatious to Lestrade, but later realized it was all Mycroft's doing.

Sherlock was, as the doctor had said, asleep, and looked quite peaceful. Left alone, Lestrade took a closer look at the patient, and the harsh hospital lights only helped to draw out the ugly wounds on Sherlock's face. One of his eyes looked red and swollen, and a bruise marked his forehead, purple and foul looking. Some minor scratches were covered up by a small plaster and even the knuckles of his hands didn't escape damage.

Lestrade inwardly cringed at the sight, and before he realized his hand had moved, it was gliding through Sherlock’s black mane, tangled and damp. He pushed back the fringe on his forehead and tried to assemble the strands in some manner of order. It was a fruitless exercise he quickly realized, and softly chuckled to himself as he backed away from the bed and sat down in a rather uncomfortable armchair.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you gone and done now?" he said to the quiet of the room. The room did not answer back.

Filtered sunlight woke Lestrade, a crick in his neck. He must've fallen asleep sitting down and now he'd pay for it. He groaned as he stretched out his back and noticed a nurse standing by Sherlock's bed, taking vitals. The younger man was still asleep and Lestrade's phone took that moment to rouse him fully from his slumber. He promptly answered, following an irritated glance by the nurse.

"Lestrade. Yes, yeah I'm aware. I'll be in, just give me twenty. Yep." He hung up, hating morning. He needed to get to work, and he hadn't slept properly, showered, changed or eaten. He spared a glance at Sherlock before turning to leave. Just as the door opened, Mycroft came though.

"Inspector. Thank you for staying with my...unfortunate brother. I do apologize for the inconvenience he has caused you this evening."

Lestrade just stared. "It's fine. I mean, it's not _fine_ , none of this is fine but I'm glad I was able to be here, when others could not," he finished and leveled a steely glare at Mycroft. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get to work. When Sherlock wakes, tell him I was here, and that I'm gonna kill him." And he stalked off, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock and the awful antiseptic hospital smell behind.

Work kept him occupied for the whole day and he truly didn't realize how much of Sherlock's input he needed until he couldn't have it. He even missed all the sarcastic jabs at his intellect.

Visiting hours were well over by that point so he rang Mycroft to check on Sherlock. Everything was copesetic allegedly. Sherlock had woken up and went back to being, well... Sherlock, apparently. Lestrade felt strangely relieved to hear that at least his mind hadn't been too affected by his stupidity. He told himself he'd visit the next day but when he got to the hospital, Sherlock was gone. Startled, he barked at the nearest nurse who told him he was discharged early that morning. He flipped his phone open and called Mycroft.

"Good afternoon, Inspector. I assume you went looking for my brother."

"Where is he?"

A pause. And then: "My brother has been transferred to a special facility where he can be monitored and looked after. A Rehabilitation Centre, if you will. You need not worry, it is one of the most prestigious care centers in all of Great Britain and when he is finished, well, you can have your assistant back if you so choose. In the meantime, I'm afraid there is no outside contact allowed. And no visitors. Family included, except for emergency reasons."

Lestrade felt slightly ill at this news. Sherlock gone. For who knows how long. And he didn't even get a chance to see him before he went. He felt a bit agitated, and sighed, thanking Mycroft for the news. He knew he couldn't afford to dwell too long on Sherlock's situation. He brought it upon himself and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Maybe now he'd get the help he needed. In the back of his mind however, Lestrade knew that you couldn't really help a person if they didn't want to be helped. And he knew Sherlock.

***

On a blistery, early December morning, dreary and damp, Sherlock showed up to a crime scene where Lestrade had arrived to moments prior. He was barking orders at his team when he noticed him. A specter in the distance, a black blob against the foggy backdrop. He casually walked up to the Inspector, getting clearer with every step, hands in pockets, collar up against the wind. His cheeks were red and his eyes tired, but keen.

He stopped right in front of Lestrade, his stance cocky as ever, but his face betrayed the slightest twinge of nervousness. Lestrade wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know the man as well as he did. He looked...better. Fuller, and most important, healthy.

"Lestrade."

He couldn't help the grin from spreading on his face, even though in the back of his mind he knew he should be furious with the man. Still, it was worth it to see the eye-roll that followed.

"You bloody bastard. Just couldn't stay away, huh?"

A shrug.

"How'd you know where I was anyway?" he asked, and got that _look_. The ‘don't be a complete idiot’ look. He shook his head, trying to stifle the smile creeping up. "Well come on then, you're gonna _love_ this one. Got your name all over it. Let's see if you haven't lost your touch."

He hadn't.

While the team was finishing up, Lestrade was surprised to see Sherlock still there. He went off to the side, chain-smoking, like he was waiting for something. Or someone. Lestrade walked over to him, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"You're looking good, mate." Sherlock continued to stand there, not really looking at him, and yet, not really ignoring him either.

"Listen, it's bloody freezing out here. Do you wanna grab a coffee or something? I'm nearly done here."

Sherlock dropped his cigarette and crunched it with his toe. Then he finally gave his undivided attention to Lestrade. "Mycroft didn't want me to come today."

Lestrade blinked at the sudden change of subject, aiming a puzzled look at the younger man. "Well, I'm glad you did," he found himself replying, pleased to see a confused gaze directed at him this time. Sherlock must have had some doubts about whether he would be invited back to help out, Lestrade mused. But really, at the end of the day, Lestrade was glad for his return. Not only for the assistance. But he actually missed having him around, as strange as that sounded.

"So, coffee?"

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, his face uncharacteristically blank. "Maybe another time," he finally said, and walked away.

Things got back to what passed for normal. Lestrade called Sherlock for assistance, Sherlock would arrive, pick fights with everyone around him, solve the case, and then leave. Lestrade tried twice to bring up what happened with Sherlock and the Rehab Centre, and both times Sherlock gave him a look that would melt steel.

His refusal to discuss his drug use annoyed Lestrade, but he didn't want to push the man away. He just wanted to understand what was going on in that head of his, but perhaps it was too much to hope for, for Sherlock to actually cooperate. He stopped coming to Lestrade's flat and for some reason Lestrade felt uncomfortable going to Sherlock. Their partnership restored, he didn't want to rock that boat. But it honestly worried him. Sherlock, living alone, being isolated constantly. It wasn't right, and it wasn't healthy.

Then in January he caught his wife in the act with the bloke from the flat below and Lestrade nearly had a meltdown right then and there. Before all hell broke loose though he managed to grab his keys and catch a cab the hell out of there.

He strode into Scotland Yard, hoping to encase himself in his office, bury himself in work. No such luck as the elevator doors opened and he found Sherlock arguing with Anderson. They both stopped as he came forward and he could _feel_ Sherlock's gaze over his entire body, assessing him, _reading_ him. He pointed. "You, my office, now." And he strode past them both to his office, slamming himself in his chair. A second later Sherlock swooped inside, closing the door behind him. Lestrade leveled his gaze at the man standing against the door.

"Sit," he pointed to a chair. Sherlock sighed, appeared to think it over, and sat down across the desk from Lestrade. He looked so prim and expensive Lestrade wanted to just punch him.

"I know what you're thinking and I don't care to hear it, got it?" He started, still pointing menacingly at the younger man. Sherlock lifted his chin. "As if your dull marital issues concern me enough to warrant a response," he drawled, and it sounded like nails on a chalkboard in Lestrade's head. Or it could just be a damned migraine.

"I mean it, Sherlock. Not in the mood. Not today, not ever. Now kindly tell me what you're doing at the Yard?"

Sherlock's eyes settled on Lestrade's, calm and cool. "I was bored. I wanted to see if I could get my hands on any of the cold case files. I had words with Anderson. Now _you're_ here so you can just give them to me."

Lestrade looked down at his desk and rubbed his temples with his fingers, trying to sooth away the impending excruciating pain just behind his eyes, ever threatening. He also thought it would be easier _not_ to look at Sherlock as he was this close to launching over his desk to strangle the kid.

"Sherlock, go home. I'm in no mood."

He was met with silence. Then, after a beat, "I need the work, Lestrade. My mind's going to rot if I just stay at home. I'm asking for the case files."

Lestrade actually groaned. "Can't you find another hobby? Go out on a bloody date or something? Watch a film, read a book? Something?"

Sherlock stood. "Useless, pointless endeavors do not interest me, Lestrade. Now are you going to give me the case files?" he spat, and that's when Lestrade lost it.

"No!" he roared. I'm not giving you shit, you pompous prick! You don't even work here- do you even know what I had to do to get you into this building? After all the stunts you've pulled? You're a junkie looking for his next fix and I'll not be your whipping boy, Sherlock!" And the instant the words came out he knew it was a mistake.

Sherlock visibly blanched, his eyes went wide and no matter how hard he tried, Lestrade will never forget that look of betrayal that flashed across the other man's face. He took a deep breath, shaking his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, for the headache had turned into an all out assault, and opened his mouth to apologize, but Sherlock was already halfway out the door, coat swirling around the still too-slight frame. And Lestrade didn't have the energy to go after him, sinking back into his chair with a long-suffering sigh, reaching for the top draw of his desk for the pills that would temporarily dull the pounding in his skull, and hating himself as he's never hated himself before. The outburst would cost him, he knew. It was only a matter of when.

It was like waiting for a bomb to go off, the long, agonizing intensity of it all. You know it's going to happen, so you're constantly on edge.

Lestrade had called Sherlock to apologize. He was also a coward, since he knew Sherlock would never pick up his phone. He preferred to text. So he shamefully left him a voicemail. He kept it short and sweet. He got no response which was disappointing but not surprising. The following week he got called in on a murder case near the Thames. He texted (loathing the extra time it took) Sherlock.

_Got one for you. Female, head bludgeoned in._

_Carnwath/Thames._

_Coming?_

Five minutes later he got a response.

_Be there in half an hour. SH_

Sherlock arrived on time and spared hardly a glance at anyone surrounding the body. Lestrade told them all to back off for the time being and listened as Sherlock rattled off various deductions. Some he'd already established, a few had his brows rising incredulously. But he listened to it all, and as usual, things started to click into place, and they had something potentially to go on. Sherlock was madly texting on his mobile when Lestrade approached him, almost cautiously.

"So, thanks for coming out all this way. Really appreciate all your help today."

Sherlock turned from his phone and blinked up at Lestrade, and with an edge to his voice said, "Do you?"

"Do I what?" Lestrade asked automatically.

"Appreciate my help?" he responded just as cold.

Lestrade frowned. "What's that supposed to mean... course I do. I always do." Sherlock stared at him impassively for a second before snapping his mobile shut. He placed it inside his coat, only to come back out with a packet of cigarettes. He pulled one out, clamped it to his teeth before hiding the pack away and reaching for his lighter. Eyes still glued on Lestrade he lit the end of his cigarette, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke practically in the older man's face.

"Let's not fool ourselves, shall we?" he simply said, turning away, smoke billowing around him in the frosty air. He left Lestrade there on the water's edge, gaping after the retreating silhouette, confused and just a bit hurt.

At ten forty that night, he got the call at home. Not from his guys, they didn't handle the drugs division. No, from bloody Mycroft Holmes.

"Hospital, I think. Now, if you please, Inspector." And Lestrade's stomach bottomed out, and he braced himself for the worst. "Where are you, why aren't you there now?"

"I'm flying back from Geneva as we speak. Do hurry. I would prefer someone he knows in case-"

And the pause scared Lestrade more than the clinical detachment. He hung up without responding and threw on his jacket thanking whatever entities out there that he never got the chance to get changed that evening. He told the cabbie to hurry the fuck up and practically raced inside the hospital. There, one of the doctors was already waiting for him, bringing him up to speed as they made their way upstairs.

Mr. Holmes had arrived just an hour prior. Yes, he was stable, no he was not out of the woods yet. Yes, it was obvious overdose. No they weren't quite sure what was inside the needle... and Lestrade was shaking and shaking and it was like deja fucking vu all over again. It was a recurring nightmare and one he couldn't wake from. One day it wouldn’t be a dream though. He was scared that today was that day.

It was late when he got another update, this time from one of the nurses. Mr. Holmes had been moved to his room and was resting. Yes, he was still being monitored but we believe the worst has passed. Yes, he can have a visitor...

He should have just went home. He should have gone straight home after finding out the little shit would live.

But no, he decided to be decent, and kind and that of course had led to calling him a stupid idiot, and getting angry all over again. And if he had gone home, he wouldn't be in the position he was today: Potential caretaker for one Sherlock Holmes.

 

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

Lestrade left his flat with a purpose that morning. He had finally slept, not well, but woke somewhat surprisingly refreshed and exuberant. With Sherlock in hospital for an undisclosed amount of time, he'd surely thought he might change his mind regarding his spur of the moment offer. He was certain Mycroft thought he already had. And this irritated him more than anything else. He wasn't going to back down or change his mind. In fact, now that his mind had made that perfectly clear for him, he was going to relish this experiment.

But first, he needed to speak with Sherlock. Because as much as he wanted to live in a perfect world, he knew this was going to be hell, and if he wanted this arrangement to work at all, he really needed Sherlock to be on board.

He made it upstairs without a fuss and knocked before turning the handle to Sherlock's private room. The younger man looked up at the entrance, a hint of surprise at seeing Lestrade there. He quickly put his mask back in place and resumed reading whatever was in his lap.

Well, at least he doesn't look like death, Lestrade thought, closing the door behind him.

"Morning," he said, bright and cheery. He walked over and sat down not on the chair by the bed, but on the narrow bed itself. He could feel Sherlock stiffen imperceptibly.

"Let's have a chat, shall we?"

A long-suffering sigh finally made its way past Sherlock, and he slammed the hardcover closed. Lestrade glanced at the cover. "Canterbury Tales?" he asked in surprise. "I didn't know you went for that sort of thing, heh," he mused.

"You don't know anything about me," Sherlock said, a hint of accusation too obvious to pass for indifference. Lestrade sighed.

"I would, if you'd let me in, Sherlock," he said softly.

"I don't want your help, Lestrade," he ground out, teeth clenched, eyes averted.

"Maybe not, but you need my help. You don't have too many options here, Sher." He blinked at the odd nickname that came from nowhere. Sherlock too noticed, throwing Lestrade a glance, but not commentating.

Lestrade stood because he was a pacer, and pacing felt right at the moment. "If you don't come home with me, Mycroft will commit you to that place. And it sure seemed you have absolutely no desire to end up there again. Your third option. I could sweep your flat, and drag you to jail the minute they release you here, and you can detox there. I'm really trying not to go for that one, Sherlock. You know what I'd prefer, but-” he ran a hand through his grey- speckled hair- "I'm not gonna drag you kicking and screaming so you can resent me for the rest of your life. I'm willing to trust you to do your damn best, but it won't work if you don't trust me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "This isn't a choice, Lestrade. Don't stand there and pretend how noble you are in giving me some semblance of choice. It's beneath you to be so transparent," he spat. “What are you trying to prove, Inspector? You think you want to _save_ me? Perhaps it really has escaped your notice, but I am _not_ your concern and you need not implicate yourself where you are not wanted," he finished in a deadly whisper.

Damn it to hell, the kid knew which buttons to press. Even now. He rushed forward and grabbed the front of Sherlock's hospital gown, practically lifting his back off the bed. "Listen to me, you little shit. Don't you sit there and pretend to know _me_. You don't give a shit about anyone or anything, not even yourself. Why did you come to me before? Why! You broke into my fucking flat and bled out on my carpet and you dare talk to me about being transparent? I'm not sure what the hell happened in your privileged little childhood to warrant such appalling behavior but I'm not having it. I meant what I said. You're done with cases, I swear it Sherlock, so help me. You either come with me or I'll call your brother up right now."

"There is no need for that, Inspector."

Lestrade let go of Sherlock to find Mycroft standing by the door, a wry expression on his face. Ignoring him for the time being, he turned back to Sherlock, who was flushed and indignant, and pointed at him. "I'm going to get a coffee. When I come back, I want your answer."

He swept passed Mycroft and out into the hallway, breathing heavy, hands shaking. He went to the vending machine, ordered the vile concoction they called coffee there and sat in a chair in the hall, waiting for his breathing to return to normal. He hated not being in control. He couldn't remember the last time he lost his temper so easily. Not even at the Yard, when things got bleak did he succumb, knowing there was always something brighter just around the corner. But now he felt a bit lost and more than troubled. He felt responsible. Guilt gnawed at him like a persistent virus and he absolutely hated feeling that way.

He knew Sherlock wasn't his responsibility. Knew it wasn't his fault Sherlock did what he did. And yet, there was the constant guilt rolling around in his gut unpleasantly. He was the older one though, and he encouraged Sherlock at every turn. Perhaps it was a mistake to bring him into his world, but the thought of what Sherlock might be doing instead frightened him.

It all boiled down to the fact that he hardly knew who Sherlock was. Aside from the fact that the guy was a genius and had a bigger, scarier brother, he didn't know anything about his past. Not that he thought for a second Sherlock would indulge his curiosity. The man was more closed off than a Catholic nun. He once called himself a sociopath and Lestrade entertained that theory for all of an hour. He was a detective, as much as Sherlock loved to refute that fact, and he knew people. And he knew, deep down, Sherlock was no sociopath. He knew the guy was troubled. And right now he knew he needed help. And God help him, he was going to do his utter best to try to reach him. He finished his coffee and went back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was sitting upright in his bed, an untouched tray of food on his lap. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen. Big surprise there. He sat down by the bed in that awful uncomfortable chair again, knowing Sherlock hated people towering over him. He clasped his hands in front and regarded the pale figure in the bed, studiously ignoring him.

"You need to eat something, Sherlock. You're skin and bones."

"Thank you, mother."

Lestrade had to laugh. "So, have we made a decision then?" he asked with a false cheer.

Sherlock finally turned calculating eyes to Lestrade's. "It appears that I am now your prisoner," he said.

Lestrade blinked, sighing. "Don't say that. I don't want it to seem like that. You're my guest from now on."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade like he normally would at Anderson. And it made his skin crawl.

"Stop that," he said with all seriousness. Sherlock finally turned away from him, one hand reaching for the food tray, lifting it away from the bed and onto the bedside table. He then procured his book from somewhere within his blankets and proceeded to read it, blatantly dismissing Lestrade. He sighed, getting up. He'd let him sulk. He had some work to do anyway.

After a quick call to Mycroft, Lestrade found his way to Sherlock's flat. There, he proceeded to turn the place inside out, as carefully as he could. He didn't want to disturb any of Sherlock's experiments, or whatever they were. He started with the bedroom, flipping mattress, opening draws, looking under the bed, under the bed frame. Then the wardrobe. He was surprised to find it so impeccably organized, considering the state of the rest of the flat. He went through every trouser pocket, suit jacket, anything and everything with pockets.

After he was satisfied there he went to the bathroom. It was a tiny space so he went through it in no time, before making his way through the kitchen (disaster zone) and living area. When he was finished two hours later, he gazed down at his findings: Two hypos and a small baggie of (probably) coke. He frowned, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed. He didn't know what he had imagined when coming there. He supposed it could have been worse. He surmised that Sherlock, whatever he did, did not do it at home.

Next, he went back to the bedroom and started gathering up some clothing. It felt a bit strange going through the man's personal items and he was sure he'd have words with Sherlock later, but he quickly pulled out some pants, socks, tees, comfortable lounge pants, a dressing gown, and a couple pairs of suits.

Then he went back to the bathroom to get Sherlock's toothbrush, razor, and what appeared to be very fancy and expensive shampoo. He rolled his eyes but bagged it all the same. Satisfied, he was about to take off, Sherlock's laptop tucked under his arm, when his eyes fell upon it. Sherlock's violin. He shrugged, putting down Sherlock's possessions and went to locate the case. He did eventually find it, buried under the sofa, cobwebs galore. He sighed as he carefully placed the violin inside, along with the bow which he found wedged between a throw cushion.

He went over to the violin stand to retrieve a few music sheets when he paused to stare at the paper. The notes and markings were clearly done by hand. He rifled through the five different pages and noticed the same thing. No titles on any of them, just pristinely drawn musical notes, and a few random scribbles, in what was clearly Sherlock's scrawl.

"Well, well..." Lestrade gathered the sheets as well, surprised upon discovering something he never knew before of Sherlock. When he was satisfied he got everything he came for, he went back to his flat.

Two days later, a sleek, spotless black sedan pulled up to Lestrade's flat as he waited on the kerb in front. Mycroft stepped out first followed by a very petulant-looking Sherlock. The older Holmes came up to Lestrade, shaking his hand. "Inspector, I trust you have everything you need?" Lestrade blinked. "What could I possibly need that I don't already have?"

Mycroft regarding him stoically before quirking his lip. "Yes, well, if you do require anything, do let me know and it will be provided immediately. In the meantime, here is the number for the Rehabilitation Centre. If you change your mind. Nor would I blame you if you did. The next few days will not be...pleasant."

Lestrade sighed. "Yea, got it. I'm aware. Thanks, though."

Mycroft nodded his goodbye after a beat and walked up to Sherlock, whispering something in his ear. Sherlock's response was to glare back at the retreating form.

"Come on up, Sherlock, it's bloody freezing out here." He didn't wait for the man to follow him, just went inside the building to the lift.  He normally would take the stairs, as he lived on the second floor, but for Sherlock’s benefit, thought it would be less strenuous. Sherlock walked in a moment later, hands stuffed in his coat as per usual. Lestrade, busy at the Yard, was not able to see Sherlock at the hospital since his last visit, so he took a moment to scan for any changes.

The bruising was still very prominent, but the colour was shifting to a greenish hue, and some of the scratches were starting to fade. His left eye was still a bit red and swollen but otherwise, he didn't look worse. Just tired. Sherlock didn't say a word as they walked into the flat, just stood there in the entryway.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "You know where everything is. No need to stand on ceremony. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and I've laid out clean sheets on the bed." Now Sherlock turned to him. "You only have the one bedroom, Inspector, the sofa is adequate for my needs."

Lestrade had been expecting this. "We can talk about it in a few week's time, when you're a bit better off. For now, I'd prefer you in the bedroom. It's more quiet and secluded. I'm fine out here, and it wouldn't be my first time sleeping on my sofa. Now come on."

He walked away from Sherlock's probing gaze to his bedroom. "I've emptied out two of the drawers here and put your folded clothes and socks here. And in the wardrobe on the left side there I've hung the suits I brought over from your flat. In the bathroom you'll find some of your other things. Good?" He stopped when he noticed Sherlock's fixed gaze. He was standing in front of the bed, looking down at the very familiar case sitting on top of the coverlet.

"You went through my flat." It wasn't a question and Lestrade didn't bother to respond as he watched Sherlock graze a finger over the worn violin case, almost lovingly. Then he sighed and shrugged off his coat, throwing it haphazardly on the bed. Lestrade swallowed as he took in the slight figure, arms bandaged over, wearing a t-shirt in the middle of winter and expensive trousers that barely fit him. He repressed the sigh.

"Breakfast, I think."

"I'd like to rest," Sherlock said, surprising him.

"I know, but you need to eat. That's not negotiable." He walked away, hating himself for the harshness in his own voice, but knowing it was what Sherlock needed, whether _he_ knew it or not. In the kitchen he made toast with jam, and tea with sugar. He wanted something light for Sherlock this morning, and knew the man wouldn't eat more anyway. Still, one could hope. He placed everything on the table just as Sherlock plopped down in the chair.

"Eat. All of it." He made his own toast, his back to Sherlock. He heard the unmistakable sound of crunching and chewing, and had to bite back a smile. When he was done with the jam he brought his own plate and tea to the table and joined Sherlock. They ate in silence. Sherlock seemed a bit far away, his knee constantly bobbing under the table. He did look quite exhausted and it seemed to take all the effort he had to finish the toast. He barely touched his tea. Lestrade had questions, but he didn't want to press the man so soon. But he knew it would only get worse before it got better. He was not looking forward to a Sherlock in the midst of withdrawal, but he hoped it would pass quickly.

"Would you like to shower?" he asked when both their plates were empty. Sherlock merely shook his head, eyes closing minutely. "Alright, well, go on then, I'll be out here if you need anything." Sherlock stood, lethargic in his movements and went to the bedroom. closing the door behind him. He didn't come out until that evening. Lestrade wanted to wake him for lunch, but he took a peek inside and hated the thought of waking him. He was making dinner when Sherlock shuffled out, dressing gown on, and sat down at the kitchen table, head down, elbows on table and hands clasped together against his forehead.

"Alright there, Sherlock?"

The younger man squeezed his eyes shut as if the sound pained him. "Fine," he ground out.

Lestrade laid out two plates of stir fry, Sherlock eyeing his disdainfully. But he picked up his fork and ate without commenting, which actually worried Lestrade a bit.

"So, mind telling me how you got all bruised up?" was _not_ the question he wanted to start with, but came out nonetheless. Sherlock paused mid-bite but besides the seconds' hesitation, didn't acknowledge the question. Lestrade plowed on, recalling earlier transgressions. "And ecstasy? Really, Sherlock? I would've thought that beneath you." He was riling him up and he knew it.

Sherlock met his eyes. "You did ask about my _hobbies_ ," he quipped with a slight raise of his brow. Lestrade frowned, appetite lost suddenly. "That isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Well luckily I'm not here to amuse you, Lestrade," Sherlock spat, and pushed back from the table. He stood, sparing a glare, and headed back to the bedroom with a door slam. Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his face, weary and annoyed. He cleared the table and sat down on the sofa, losing himself in the telly until he passed out.

He took two personal days away from the Yard, hoping to acclimate Sherlock with his situation. But Sherlock had spoken not twenty words to him since arriving, and Lestrade did not want to feel like his hard earned days off were going to waste.

During breakfast on the second morning, Sherlock looked horrible. It was clear he barely slept the previous night and his face looked worn and damp. His finger constantly tapped the side of his plate, whether he realized it or not and every minute or so he would wake up from his reverie and rub at his neck or face. He shifted in his chair as if it pained his back and alternated between leaning forward over the table or slouching back like a broken puppet. It took him half an hour to eat a slice of toast and any offer of an alternative meal choice resulted in a half-hearted glare.

"So I head back into work tomorrow. I don't like leaving you here alone, you know. I don't even want to talk about the repercussions if you step foot outside this flat."

Sherlock actually smirked. "You have no idea, do you." Lestrade frowned in confusion. Sherlock stood up and walked around the table to where Lestrade sat. Leaning forward, one hand resting on the table, the other behind Lestrade's chair, he whispered, "Your flat is bugged, Inspector. It has been for days. Just be lucky you still have privacy in the bathroom." Then he straightened up, and walked away to the bedroom. Lestrade sat numb for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. Then he stood up, chair screeching unpleasantly backwards, and stalked over to the bedroom, flinging the door open. Sherlock was propped up in bed, book in hand.

"What the hell are you on about, Sherlock?" What do you mean my flat is bugged?" Sherlock shot him a lazy look. Lestrade walked closer. "Sherlock...who. Bugged. My. Flat." Sherlock sighed dramatically and lifted his chin to the sky. "Who do you think, Lestrade? My dear, overprotective and untrusting brother, of course."

Lestrade stood, dumfounded. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock just looked at him. "Yep," he proclaimed with a false smirk, then ignored Lestrade in favour of his book.

Lestrade knew very little about the elder Holmes brother, but the various hints thrown by Sherlock over months led Lestrade to believe that Mycroft Holmes was most likely a very important individual, involved with the British Government on some level. He was not so comfortable knowing just how far his reach extended. At the same time though, he felt oddly relieved that someone could keep an eye on Sherlock, even when Lestrade wasn't able to. So he went to work and tried not to worry himself to death over the course of the day. He got an earful from Donovan whom he had warned in advance about the arrangement. Her response went as followed:

"Sir, that is the most ridiculous idea you've ever had! How could you just leave him in your flat alone like that? How can you even trust that junkie freak?"

"That's enough, Sally. I mean it. I don't wanna hear another word about it. It's done. I'm doing it. End of story."

"What about your wife, sir?" And that's when he nearly lost it, whirling on Donovan. "My _wife_ is currently not living at home, thanks very much. A fact that Sherlock realized months before, so I'll ask you kindly not to refer to her again." And they had left it at that.

He practically rushed home, head pounding something fierce. Back at the flat, Sherlock was in an agitated mood; foul and impossible, more so than usual. He insulted Lestrade as soon as he walked through the door on the state of his abysmal library, the fact that the bedsheets were nowhere near the eight hundred thread count he was accustomed to, and that the shower stall was impossibly small. Lestrade ignored all of this with an eye roll, recognizing the agitation for what it really was.

"Right, help me with dinner?"

"Fuck off," said Sherlock before retreating to the silence of the bedroom. Still, he did come out when Lestrade told him to get his arse out for dinner. He sat sullenly and refused to eat, looking a bit peaky around the edges. His hair was an appalling jungle, as if it'd been tugged at and yanked.

Beads of sweat had appeared on his brow and he fitfully tried to wipe them away to no avail. Lestrade ate in silence, contemplating the younger man. He knew the signs of withdrawal and he knew how valiantly Sherlock tried to fight them. Sherlock reached over with a shaky hand for a glass of water, bringing it to his lips. The dressing gown sleeve slid up, revealing bare arms, speckled with bruises, some uglier than others. Thankfully, none of the hypo marks looked infected.

"Do you want to take anything for the pain?" he softly asked Sherlock. He knew his body ached him and he knew how hard Sherlock was trying to hide the fact.

Sherlock glared at him with cloudy eyes. "I'm going to bed," he stated with a hoarse whisper and left without waiting for a response.

That night, Lestrade jumped off the sofa in fright when the bedroom door crashed open and Sherlock made a beeline for the loo. Retching sounds were soon followed and Lestrade sighed, biting his lip. He filled a glass with water and waited by the door for Sherlock to come out. When he did he looked wretched. His hair was plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat, his loose tee clinging to him like cellophane. He handed over the glass which the younger man took with shaky fingers. He drank, and gave the glass back, wobbling back to the bedroom. Lestrade followed. Sherlock collapsed in a heap in the middle of the bed, face planted into the pillows. Lestrade made to cover him but was met with protest.

"No. Too hot." Lestrade nodded, though Sherlock didn't notice, and sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you need anything?"

"Dizzy."

He sighed. "I know, Sher." He raked his fingers through Sherlock's slick hair, soothing him back to sleep. It didn't last long before he was up again, and this time, Lestrade fetched an empty pitcher to keep by the bedside.

Come morning, Sherlock was shaking in bed and couldn't even move from all the aches. The soft sighs soon turned to pained moans as he fisted the pillows, clenching bony fingers around the fabric as if it helped ease his suffering.

Lestrade felt so awful he called out and stayed home with him. There was no way he could leave him like that. He sat by the bed as Sherlock alternated between being too hot, to his teeth chattering for hours. He knew what to expect when he signed up for this, but experiencing it first hand was a whole other matter. He felt utterly helpless and a bit frightened. The pain seemed excruciating, and once or twice he almost called Mycroft out of cowardliness. But then Sherlock would sleep, fitfully, but at least he rested, and he looked so young and so sad, that Lestrade hated himself for even thinking about sending him away. So he stayed, and wiped his brow, and covered him with three blankets when the chills got too much, and cleaned out the pitcher, and brought him water.

When he knew Sherlock was simply in pain and not able to sleep, he talked to him. He spoke of his cases, and amusing stories of his first year with the Met. He told Sherlock how his favourite place to visit was Brighton, and how he's always wanted to go to Egypt. He told him how he loved history, but was rubbish at math, that he loved watching football and hated baseball. He told Sherlock random things, just to keep talking, just to let Sherlock know that he was _there_. Sherlock never responded or seemed to be aware that Lestrade was speaking half the time. Still, Lestrade talked.

"You would hate Brighton, I'm sure. Too dull for you. Not enough crime there to keep you occupied. Still, it's nice to get some fresh air once in a while, get the hell out of London. Enjoy the silence." He looked down at Sherlock's worn out body, clearing the fringe away from his eyes. "You can't though, huh? It's never quiet for you up there is it?" he whispered, his hand resting on his damp forehead. "Is that why you do it, for a bit of peace?" He got no answer.

He woke to blue eyes and heat. At first, groggy and crusty-eyed, he had no clue what was going on. And then he remembered he must have passed out on the bed next to Sherlock. Now, fully awake, he realized he was nearly surrounded by covers and Sherlock. He squinted at the younger man, surprised to find him awake. His eyes, more alert than he'd seen them in days were inches away from his own. He pulled back slightly to get a clearer look.

"Morning," he yawned. "You been awake long?"

"A while," Sherlock replied in that low tenor of his.

"That's scary," Lestrade said with a grin. "How you feeling?"

Sherlock swallowed hard before saying anything. "Better." He looked down. "Thank you."

Lestrade stilled, breath hitching. He couldn't remember Sherlock thanking him for anything, ever. He reached over and ruffled the younger man's hair. "Glad to hear it. And, you're welcome." He rolled over on his back, stretching out his kinks before sliding out of the bed. "Gonna shower, unless you want to first?" He looked down at the rumpled man, pose serene, staring up at him with a lazy expression. He found himself grinning all the way to the bathroom. Once he was out, Sherlock was sitting up in bed, texting on his mobile.

"I'm out of cigarettes," he exclaimed when Lestrade went into the bedroom in his robe in search of clothing. He grabbed a suit and tie from the wardrobe and boxers from the dresser. "Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea at the moment." He turned back to look at the younger man, who was wearing a petulant expression.

"I'll see what I can do, okay?" he finally declared with a huff. "Though I don't approve." He returned to the living room to get dressed. He went to work that morning feeling like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He even called Mycroft with an update on Sherlock's condition, who thanked him for _wasting his time on a lost cause_ , was the phrase he used.

He stopped by the shops to pick up some smokes and milk before heading home. The sight that greeted him was not an entirely unpleasant one. Sherlock was on the sofa, showered and clean-shaven, actually eating something. Leftovers from the looks of it, but still. He didn't remark on it however, choosing instead to take off his jacket, loosen his tie and plop down right next to him. He reached over and chucked the packet of cigarettes onto Sherlock's lap, who threw him a look.

"You get just one, and be thankful for that. Now you'll pace yourself or be out of it, got it?" Sherlock sighed but said nothing. He did finish his plate, depositing it in the sink after a while. He fiddled with his laptop silently as Lestrade went over some case notes. By late evening, Sherlock was rubbing at his head again. He took out a cigarette, contemplating it, and went to the kitchen window, opening it up to the winter air. He smoked in silence before rejoining Lestrade on the sofa.

"I'm bored."

Lestrade laughed. "You don't say."

"Are those related to a case?"

Lestrade sighed. "Yes..."

After a beat: "May I?"

"Are you gonna answer my questions?" Lestrade asked suddenly. Sherlock immediately went on the offensive.

"Are they going to be pointless?"

"Answer my questions, and you can look at all the case files you want," he bargained. He didn't get a response so he ventured a go.

"What happened that night before you came home drugged out of your mind on X only to stick yet another needle in your arm?" he growled the last bit out. Sherlock stared unflinchingly back.

"What I do in my personal time, is my own damn business!" he hissed.

"It may be your business who you screw around with but as soon as you show up to my work or home high, or worse, near death, then it becomes _my_ business. And are you out of your mind? Never mind the drugs, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Do you want to wind up with an STD or fucking worse?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't know you cared so much, Lestrade," he said with a sardonic curl of his lip. Lestrade fought to keep his hands to himself.

"I bloody well do care, and you know it. Or you wouldn't be here." Sherlock froze, his face gone pale.

"You don't care about me," he scoffed. "You only care what I can do for you! All you give a shit about is the work! And you know what, that's fine with me." He stood, towering over Lestrade now. "That's all I care about anyway. That's all that ever mattered to me. I don't need you to pretend anything-to _beguile_ me with your false offers of friendship! None of that matters, don't you see!" he said in an almost hysterical fashion. Lestrade could only stare, hurt and angry over the accusations spewing from Sherlock's mouth.

"You ungrateful bastard," he breathed, and something in his tone snapped Sherlock out of his tirade. He glanced away, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes against everything. Then, after a beat, he looked up, craning his neck, and took another deep breath as if to steady himself. Finally he looked down at his feet.

"Look. I appreciate your offer to assist me with this. No one else would have-" he broke off, almost uncomfortable. "But let's not pretend, shall we? For both our sakes. It would make this whole...arrangement so much more simpler. And then we can get back to the way it was. You call me, I come and solve your case. Everybody wins."

Lestrade didn't realize he was no longer looking at Sherlock, when he finally stopped speaking. But he knew one thing. He didn't particularly want to look at him at all. Without a word, he gathered up his jacket, and left his flat.

He walked. It was bitterly cold, but for once it didn't bother him. He was completely immune to the temperature outside, while his mind was boiling over. The pounding increased with every step he took, matching the beating in his chest.

He wanted a drink, but couldn't be bothered to stop for one. Walking felt good. Therapeutic. If he kept walking, maybe he could gain some distance between himself and Sherlock's cold eyes. A brilliantly clueless man, without a soul to speak of. He stopped. No. That wasn't right. And he couldn't think that. That's what Sherlock wanted everyone to believe. He liked to keep everyone at arm's length because he believed it protected him. But from what? From anyone getting too close? Like his great big coat that he wore like a suit of armor, he also shielded his mind from anyone or anything that he deemed to be a threat. And apparently, right now that was Lestrade.

So out of sorts, he didn't even notice the dark car rolling along beside him. When the door opened, he heard his name being called and he stuttered to a halt. He inwardly groaned. He really didn't feel like dealing with Mycroft Holmes right now, but the inner glow of the vehicle beckoned him and he was soon seated on warm leather, staring impassively at the other man.

"A storm is coming, Inspector. I didn't want you to get caught, so far from home."

Lestrade was only now aware of how far he really was from his flat. Still, he wasn't in the mood for a chat. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes looked at Lestrade, unblinking, and for a second it reminded him of Sherlock. He pushed that thought aside. "I did try to warn you, Inspector. My brother is not an easy individual to associate with."

Annoyed now, he blurted, "What's wrong with him?"

Mycroft blinked and flicked a pretend speck off his starched trousers. "No official diagnosis has been assigned to him. When he was much younger, numerous doctors tried, and failed to properly treat him. Brain scans, aptitude tests, Rorschach, you name it. His stubbornness wasn't an easy obstacle to overcome." He stopped and peered outside as the sleet started to pound on the car. Lestrade contemplated all this.

"He said the drugs helped. To turn it off."

Mycroft turned back to Lestrade. "Yes, I imagine it's true, to a point. Imagine, if you will Inspector, a high-speed train that never stops to pick up passengers, nor has an end destination. It just keeps flying, on an endless track. That is Sherlock's mind. Opiates naturally slow down the functions of the brain. For Sherlock, I'm sure it dulls it enough to keep him coming back. He's not addicted to the drug, Inspector. He's addicted to the quiet."

Lestrade sat in silence, his heart clenching uncomfortably and his migraine working overtime.

"Home, I think?" came the soft voice.

"Home."

His movements were cautious and slow as he shut the door to his flat, depositing his keys on the kitchen table. All was quiet and dark. He stopped at the entrance to the bedroom and saw the dark figure curled up on his side on the bed.

He sighed and approached, considerate of waking up the sleeping man. He quietly sank down on the edge of the bed, tired and spent. A sudden pained moan had him glancing down. A frown creased the sweat-drenched brow as the younger man stifled another groan. He was fisting the sheets, curled up into a ball now and Lestrade did the only thing he could think of. He reached a hand out and grabbed Sherlock's clenched fist, just a small bit of pressure applied. And Sherlock latched on. Lestrade jerked his head in surprise before squeezing the shaking digits.

"I'm here, Sherlock," he cooed softly. "Just hold on."

"Stomach...hurts..." came the muffled sound, so weary and drained.

"I know," he said, his heart breaking. He felt utterly useless and helpless. He ended up falling asleep, his back against Sherlock's curled up form, his fingers woven between the other man's digits. When he woke, he was on his side and there was a warm, solid weight against his back.

He shifted and realized Sherlock's arm was pinned underneath him, his hand still clenched with Lestrade's. He froze for a moment and tried to remember how he got here. Warm breath against his neck sent goose pimples running up and down his body, despite the heat radiating from behind him. It should have felt odd, he mused. It should have felt wrong. But after wracking his brain, nothing of the sort jumped out at him. He relaxed into the sheets, and allowed a moment of blissful peace before surrendering to his day. He carefully disengaged himself from Sherlock's grasp, pleased that it didn't wake the younger man, and went to prepare for work.

The weather had cleared up nicely after Lestrade got home, with snow softly falling over London, charming and peaceful. He lugged his Tesco purchases up to his flat, and attempted to get his keys out without dropping any of the bags. He tried to buy something that might tempt Sherlock. The man never indicated what he preferred to eat, never seemed to like or dislike anything. He wanted to put at least a stone on the younger man, though preferably more. He plopped the shopping on the countertop, frowning over at Sherlock who was lazing about on the sofa, texting madly away, and studiously ignoring Lestrade's clear need for assistance.

"Yea, thanks a lot by the way," he grumbled, going about emptying the bags. He placed some random food items on the counter, hoping it might catch Sherlock's eye. After a few minutes, Sherlock chucked his phone away in a huff. "Lestrade, I'm going out of my mind here," he whinged, with an arm thrown over his face for the dramatic effect.

Lestrade finished putting everything away, then went to join Sherlock on the sofa. "Hey, budge over." He pushed Sherlock's long limbs down off the sofa and took a seat next to him. "I was thinking, if you were up to it, maybe we could take a walk, get some fresh air," he ventured, glancing sideways at Sherlock.

A deep sigh escaped Sherlock's nose, that practically screamed 'dull!'. The younger man finally inched himself to a seating position and regarded Lestrade curiously. "How would a walk help with my boredom? Plus, it's snowing."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You could do with some air, unless you wanna stay cooped up here? Plus, you can, you know, read people as we're walking, give you something to do." Sherlock mulled it over for a moment, trying and failing to hide his interest. In the end, he grudgingly agreed, changing into his customary suit ensemble, coat, and scarf.

The snow continued at a steady pace, not enough to properly coat the sidewalks, but enough to annoy Sherlock as fat snowflakes fell to his head, leaving his hair damp and white. Hands in pocket, collar up against the slight breeze he walked alongside Lestrade, and every few moments would point with his head at some person, analyzing them in a few seconds worth of time, before moving on to someone else.

Lestrade didn't know if everything Sherlock said was all true, but he laughed along anyway. They stopped by a cafe for some coffee, Sherlock's cheeks rosy and bright. They sat in a booth and slowly sipped themselves warm, numb hands surrounding steamy mugs.

"So, wanna tell me why you hate your brother so much?" Lestrade asked after a while of steady silence. Sherlock frowned into his mug, taking a deep sip.

"I don't _hate_ my brother. I despise his constant interfering, loathe his holier than thou attitude, and abhor his not so subtle attempts of subterfuge. Since I could remember he's been on me for anything and everything. And now he's trying to recruit me," he cringed in disgust.

"Recruit you? For what?"

Sherlock blinked. "I would have thought it obvious. To work for him, of course. I'll never say yes, mind you. But it's always fun to rile him up," he smirked, his eyes gleaming wickedly. Lestrade shook his head. "You two… He took a warm sip.

"Your brother cares or he wouldn't be this attentive."

That sobered the younger man up. "Mycroft relishes putting me in my place. Always has. He loves control and will do whatever he can to achieve his means. If that's caring, than you are an even bigger simpleton than I originally imagined," he finished coldly.

"Ta," Lestrade said, raising his mug at Sherlock. "Always lovely to know how you feel, Sherlock."

They finished their drinks in silent contemplation, Sherlock's knees constantly bobbing under the table, and Lestrade was feeling a migraine coming on. He took out some bills and threw them on the table, standing up with a wince as the sharp pain in his skull escalated down to his neck. Sherlock paused a beat to stare as Lestrade waved him away.

By the time they reached his flat, Lestrade wanted to crawl in a dark hole and pretty much die. He got them, every so often, ever since he was a teenager. Acute migraines, the doctors declared, before Lestrade had replied with, "no shit." He'd go months without a twinge, but when it finally showed up, it wasn't pretty.

He went straight for his prescribed meds, which truly didn't do much aside from dull the pain moderately. Sherlock said nothing as he sprawled on the sofa, laptop in hand, glancing surreptitiously every few minutes at the older man with his head in his hands, sitting alone at the kitchen table. Finally, he got up, murmured something to Sherlock about leftovers in the fridge, and went to his bedroom. True, it was Sherlock's room for the time being but he needed a quiet place, and there he could properly draw the shades and stay in perfect darkness, until the pain ebbed at least. He fell on the bed, covering his head with a pillow. The dark helped usually but nothing truly made the pain go away. Nothing but time.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew it was quite late, a squint at the nightstand clock confirmed. His head continued to pound and he couldn't help the small groan that passed his lips.

It was then that he heard another sound. It might have been playing forever or it might have just started, but he strained his ears to listen and yes, it was playing. Beautiful playing, the sound familiar and tranquil. He sat up in bed and closed his eyes, listening for the direction of the music. It was coming from the living room, cresting, and falling and _moving_.

Sherlock was playing his violin, he knew it without even seeing it. The war in his head suspended for a moment, he slid off the bed and padded over to the door, silently turning the knob. The beautiful music flowed more freely, mournful yet pleasant. He opened the door and stood on the threshold, looking out into the living room.

There Sherlock stood, his back to him, silhouetted only by the moonlight coming through the windows, violin to his chin. And he played, the bow dancing expertly on the taut strings, bringing forth sounds Lestrade had never heard in person. It was breathtaking and he shouldn't have even been surprised and of course, of _course_ Sherlock was superb- why wouldn't he be? And yet he was still awed, because this was _not_ the Sherlock he knew. The Sherlock everyone knew.

This was for him. Sherlock was playing for him, performing for _him_. He knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow. And there in the darkness, Sherlock shone more majestic and more bright than any star ever could, and his migraine was nothing, meant nothing because astonishment had replaced everything else.

Sherlock turned at whatever sound Lestade made, but his playing never faltered. He didn't say a word as he performed on. Lestrade didn't even recognize the music, but he knew it was exquisite and he knew Sherlock chose it for him. He watched, transfixed as the long, pale fingers reached for every note- and how he flourished the bow, almost showing off, now that he had an audience. And Lestrade didn't even realize he had finished until Sherlock was approaching him, violin and bow at rest in his hands.

"I did not intend to wake you. I apologize if it was too loud."

Sherlock was apologizing? And for what, Lestrade didn't even know, or care. He was still in a haze as he murmured, "What was that?" Sherlock looked mildly uncomfortable as he walked to the sofa and placed the violin back in its case. "Just something I've been working on," he simply said, as if composing a piece from scratch was child's play.

"That was incredible. I- thank you." Sherlock seemed to know exactly what Lestrade was thanking him for as he merely nodded and fiddled with something on the violin case, clearly unaccustomed with the praise. Lestrade decided to let the man be, and went instead for a second round of pain meds. He popped two pills in his mouth, swallowing them dry.

"That really did help, Sherlock. I can sleep out here if you want to-"

"No, thank you. I'm fine on the sofa. I am probably going to stay up a while longer, so there's really no point in you sleeping out here. Go, rest. You have that meeting with Gregson tomorrow morning."

Lestrade cocked his head. "How do you know about that?" He could see Sherlock smirk in the darkness. "Right. Forget I asked," he said with a sleepy grin. He started back to the bedroom.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight."

The alarm went off, as it did every morning, though for once Lestrade wasn't quite ready for it. He bolted upright, frightened he'd overslept. He could see the sunlight glowing from behind his blinds and he cursed as he glanced at the clock.

He hurried out of his bedroom, heading straight for the bathroom. He could hear running water and cursed the timing. He knocked, loudly. "Sherlock, bit of a rush here, hurry it up!" He went back to his room to gather some clothing. He heard the tap shut off in the next room, and he sighed in relief.

He took a moment to rub the sleep out of his eyes, noting the dull throb that still existed in his head. It was nothing compared to last night though and was grateful for that at least. He headed back to the bathroom just as Sherlock was walking out. They nearly collided in his haste and for a brief second words of apology died on his lips.

Sherlock was giving him an annoyed, bothered look, but it was the sight of him nude savefor a towel hastily wrapped around his hips that currently occupied Lestrade's interest. Still damp from the shower, hair plastered to his forehead, droplets falling from the ends, he looked so very _different_. Sinewy muscles flexed as he grappled with the towel, while holding onto his clothing with his other hand. Lestrade's brain stopped working for the briefest of seconds before sputtering back to life. He stuttered, "Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm late for work." And hurried past the younger man into the bathroom, closing the door and leaning against it, his heart doing unpleasant things in his chest.

He swore, silently but with no less conviction. No, he thought. No, no and a final _hell_ no. He was not thinking this. Not even a little bit. He wouldn't -couldn't- even entertain that possibility. He groaned as he started the tap. Why did it have to be Sherlock? Ten years since he'd even looked twice at another man, and now, now of all times he had to resurrect all those long-forgotten memories.

And Sherlock, of all people. The one man with more problems and issues than half of London's population. The one man who could tear you down with just a look, eviscerate your very being and stomp it out with his toe. The one man who would never be interested. He paused as he shampooed his hair. That particular line of thinking was still up for debate.

He knew Sherlock had been with people. Men, certainly, women, possibly. But that was while under the influence of whatever drug struck his fancy. Apart from that, Lestrade couldn't believe that Sherlock would bother with anything as dull as a relationship. He'd made mention of it himself in passing. Not his area, he'd said. And Lestrade had left it at that, thinking nothing of it. Now though. Now it meant-. He frowned. Nothing. It meant nothing, because nothing could come of it. It was pointless, useless, ridiculous to even ponder.

So Sherlock was attractive. Lestrade knew that already, didn't he? Beneath the cold exterior, and the genius, and even the drugs, Sherlock was simply an attractive human being. The slanted eyes that saw right through you, and the cheekbones and long neck, and the smile that hardly anyone ever saw, and the thin, long fingers that produced magic with the strings of a violin, and the pale, lean chest....

"Fuck," he swore, forehead against tile. He could not think about this. He just couldn't. Sherlock was an addict. Sherlock was a nuisance. Sherlock was...off limits. He inhaled deeply, and allowed that thought to permeate his mind. Off limits. Just a friend. Yes. That's better. He finished his shower, got dressed and scurried out the door with a backwards 'bye' to Sherlock.

At work, Sally asked about his houseguest, not bothering to hide her disgust.

"He's doing alright, I'd say. Better than, even. He's even eating my cooking," he said with a laugh. She just shook her head.

"You are a saint for putting up with him, sir. Surprised you're still sane."

"Doesn't really have anyone else though, does he?" It wasn't supposed to be a question, and that made him a bit sad just thinking of Sherlock alone in his tiny flat, no one to talk with, nothing to do.

She merely looked at him like he had two heads. "Freak doesn't need anyone. More likely than not he's taking advantage of you, sir. That's what people like him do."

"People like him?" Lestrade slowly repeated.

"Junkies, sir. They'll do anything for a free ride." Lestrade was starting to get irritated from their conversation.

"Right. Back to work, I think," he declared and walked away, before his mouth got him in trouble.

Lestrade dealt with mysteries on a daily basis. He was a detective, and that's what he loved doing. Solving a puzzle, feeling that rush of euphoria after a case had been cracked, perpetrator put away. Sherlock was a puzzle too, and lately, Lestrade wished he could figure him out. But he feared he'd been going about it the wrong way.

Sherlock was an enigma, one that Lestrade feared he'd never understand. You didn't just solve a person like Sherlock. You studied them. Sherlock's mind was an extraordinary thing, almost a life-force in itself, constantly at work. To Sherlock, it was everything. It was all that mattered. Everything else was deemed unimportant. Transport, he called it.

You had to remind him to eat, to drink, to sleep even. All those inconveniences mattered little to a man like Sherlock. That's not how he functioned. Lestrade was both fascinated and horrified by it. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Sherlock's life was like on a daily basis. Nor could he just ask. The man absolutely loathed personal inquiries, not because they were intrusive, but because he hated wasting time answering unproductive, inane questions. He lived in the here and now, and what once was did not concern him. The more he saw of Sherlock, the more used to his way of life he became. It became apparent that no one could ever understand this enigma of a human being, but every once in a while, you were allowed a glimpse inside the mind of a genius. And Lestrade was thankful for even that.

 

TBC...


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

The body lay at an awkward angle, unnatural and disturbingly wrong. Lestrade sighed, his gut clenching at the rare sight. Rare, but certainly not the last he'd ever see. The thought pained him greatly as he gazed down at the tiny body, strewn across the cement floor like nothing more than yesterday's forgotten rubbish. He inclined his head at Anderson.

"Well?"

"She's been here three, four days at least. Various injuries. Broken neck, both legs, bruising along her jawline, hands clearly bound at some point. Still working on any fingerprints, hair traces on the body." Lestrade nodded and heaved another sigh.

"Sir!" Donovan bellowed from the entryway. "Freak's here, says you called him," she trailed off with a deep scowl. Lestrade nodded, waving her away. "Let him through!" She pursed her lips but stepped aside to let Sherlock pass without so much as a glance in her direction. He approached with purpose but steadily, as if taking in his surroundings before taking stock of what lay on the floor. Sure enough, Lestrade watched the eyes flicker to the roof, the walls, the various debris. He sniffed at the air, eyes closed as he approached Lestrade, hands in pockets.

"Bout time, Sherlock. I called an hour ago, you know," murmured Lestrade with mild annoyance.

Sherlock ignored him, finally turning his attention to the body near his feet. He stilled completely, just stared at the form in mild curiosity, eyes roaming. Anderson sighed next to them and Sherlock's eyes flickered over to him with a look of disdain. "Go away, Anderson, you're contaminating the crime scene."

Anderson sputtered. "Look here, freak, _I'm_ the forensics expert here, got it?" Sherlock scoffed, amused at the word _expert_ , but turned instead to Lestrade. "You know how I work by now, I assume, Detective?"

Lestrade sighed, not really in the mood for a pissing contest. "Anderson, go wait with Donovan." The other man gave Lestrade an indignant look before marching away.

Sherlock kneeled down. With gloved hands he carefully lifted the dead girl's hair, inspecting the scalp, sniffing at the strands. He felt her neck, picked up her limp arms, checked in between the webbing of her fingers before moving on to her fingernails. He continued his inspection on the rest of her body before standing.

"Well?" asked Lestrade.

"Need more data," Sherlock simply replied. "Bring her to Bart’s. I need to look around some more," and he swept away, leaving Lestrade irritated and exhausted. He called his team in and told them to bring the gurney. Then he went to find Sherlock, who was inspecting the doorframe with interest.

"Couldn't be more than six or seven," he said morosely. He would never, ever understand how someone could be so fucked in the head to ever harm a child. Sherlock blinked at him. "Oh her, yes, probably. I'd say six judging from her bone structure. Also, a foreigner. Or more precisely her parents are. Eastern European descent most likely. The lighting in here is terrible though and I really would need to analyze the corpse further at Barts." Lestrade cringed.

"Sherlock, Jesus..." he sighed, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"What?" asked Sherlock, genuinely bewildered.

"A child _is_ dead, Sherlock. A bit less enthusiasm would be appreciated right now."

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes a child is dead, that's why you called me is it not? Nothing I say or do will change her death but I can certainly do something about her killer. Really Lestrade, I'm not even sure why you chose to become a detective," he finished with a puzzled air. He started walking away, clearly finished, when Lestrade called after him.

"Where were you when I first called?" And if Sherlock detected the slight accusing tone he didn't comment or turn back. "Cardiff. Looking for a missing nanny."

Lestrade, confused, didn't bother to ask to elaborate.

At Bart's, they met a mousy, young lab tech named Molly Hooper, on the job for close to a month now. She was very helpful and knowledgeable, and instantly gravitated towards Sherlock, making eyes and failing miserably to hide it. At least to Lestrade. Sherlock was oblivious and more annoyed with her interfering. She ran over her facts regarding the body and spoke intelligently and matter of fact until Sherlock berated her for being an idiot. Then he stormed out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade to thank Molly for her help and to apologize for Sherlock. She waved him off and told him if she found anything further she'd let them know.

In the end, Sherlock figured out that the brother of the dead girl's father, kidnapped and toyed with the girl before breaking her neck and removing her to an isolated location and dumping her body. He listed in precise detail everything that transpired, including timestamps, leaving Lestrade impressed and reeling. They had their suspect in custody less than a week later. Lestrade went to Sherlock's flat to deliver the news himself.

Sherlock shrugged. "Pedestrian really. Something more clever might do for next time."

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! You're mouth is going to get you in trouble one of these days. And I might not be around to stop it." Sherlock smirked.

"I don't think you actually would do anything to stop it," and an impish grin settled on his face, disarming Lestrade.

"You're insane. Oh, and Happy Birthday you git."

Sherlock frowned, reaching into his mind. "Ah, yes. No wonder my mother keep calling. I should probably pick up the phone next time..."

Lestrade laughed. Leave it to Sherlock to forget his own birthday. "Listen, I’ve got the rest of the day off. You wanna grab a pint? To celebrate?”

Sherlock looked up from his current experiment, laid out over the kitchen table. "Ah, no I don't think so. I'm much too busy here."

Lestrade nodded, already having anticipated his answer. Sherlock always said no. Still, he always tried to asked. "Right then, leave you to it." He turned to leave.

"Lestrade. Thank you, though."

The smile spread from nothing, and he tipped his head towards Sherlock. "Cheers!"

***

"What do you mean he's off solving cases? What cases?" Lestrade was standing in his kitchen in front of Mycroft the following week. He was trying to get down some coffee and a scone, while fixing his tie and combing his hair when the doorbell rang. He visibly groaned when he saw the older Holmes. It was almost never a good sign when one met up with Mycroft Holmes.

"Oh god, I don't even wanna know," grumbled Lestrade when he opened the door. Mycroft walked in, imperious and impervious to Lestrade's glare.

"He's still clean, I'll swear by it," Lestrade said off the bat. Mycroft blinked.

"I'm aware, Inspector. No, I have an entirely different matter to discuss with you." Lestrade sighed, checking his watch. And then Mycroft proceeded to tell Lestrade that Sherlock had apparently been out all over England solving mysteries for different people. "Months now, Inspector. I'm surprised he hasn't boasted of it to you yet. I've counted at least twelve cases since last August."

Lestrade frowned, caught off guard by this information. "I don't understand, how did he even- and when could he-" Mycroft seemed to understand his rambling as he chimed in. "My brother has launched a website, offering his...services. People actually reach out to him, Inspector."

"Right...so you're telling me this why?" Mycroft visibly stifled a sigh as if dealing with Lestrade pained him. "It's one thing for Sherlock to tag along whenever you need his assistance. It's quite another to open up a side business and actually deal with various individuals. I don't need to tell you how much of a nightmare dealing with Sherlock is on a daily basis. I have enough trouble keeping an eye on him in London. When he goes off without a word I'm not always able to...keep track. Approaching him of this matter will only infuriate him further and since you see him often I thought-"

"Ah, you thought I'd keep you posted on his doings?" A slight incline of Mycroft's head confirmed his suspicion. He sighed. "Sherlock's a big boy. I'm not sure it's really any of our business to interfere with his work life." Mycroft smiled, a thin, quirk of the lip that disturbed Lestrade. "Sherlock may be off drugs, but that doesn't mean he's safe from himself. He will always look for the next fix, Inspector." Lestrade suddenly didn't have time for any of this. He grabbed his jacket and keys, a clear indication to Mycroft.

"You know I always try to look out for him. Now it's been over a year since he's been clean and I think doing anything other than what he's used to is a step in the right direction. I'll talk to him, but I won't interfere. Not if I have cause not to," he finished resolutely, leveling a stare. Mycroft gathered his umbrella and briefcase, nodding solemnly before departing. Lestrade waited another minute and then left himself, already late for work.

As soon as he got there, he closed himself in his office and logged onto the internet. In the web search he typed in 'Sherlock Holmes' and examined the results. He didn't have to search long. The second entry down was a URL titled _The Science of Deduction_. He clicked it, almost terrified of what he'd find. In the end it wasn't anything surprising or shocking. But sure enough, it looked like Sherlock had gone and got himself a little side business. He didn't have time to go through the whole site, but vowed he'd at least bring it up to Sherlock later on.

***

_You home?_

_Yes…SH_

_Coming by._

_Why? SH_

Lestrade smirked and snapped his phone shut. He told the cabbie to drop him off at the Indian place Sherlock liked and after picking up dinner, he walked the two blocks to Sherlock's flat. He knocked and waited a beat before the door was thrown open. Sherlock regarded him warily. Lestrade held up the takeaway bag and watched as an interested brow rose. He walked inside, depositing the food on the nearest clean surface, which he eventually found to be the coffee table.

"What's this about then? I'm far too busy to entertain you this evening, Lestrade," he said with a superior tone. Lestrade grinned. "That's not very nice, Sherlock. I bought you dinner and everything." He plopped on the sofa and rummaged through the containers until he found what he ordered for himself. Sherlock appeared disinterested for a moment before giving in. He grabbed the other container, already deducing what was inside, and sat down in the leather armchair, staring pointedly at Lestrade.

The older man finished chewing, relishing Sherlock's curiosity. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back against the cushions. "So... ‘The Science of Deduction’, heh?" Sherlock's glare was instantaneous, though it wasn't actually directed at Lestrade. "Mycroft," he growled under his breath. He forked a large chunk of mango chicken and stuffed it in his mouth.

"How'd you know Mycroft told me?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock threw him a look he recognized all too well. "Because he's the only one who would meddle in my affairs. And you're the only one he'd come to to do his bidding," he said accusingly.

"Hey, I'm not doing anything, Sherlock. Merely inquiring. Why haven't you told me about this before?"

"What for?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Cause that's what friends do, yea?" He took another bite. "So people really call you for help?"

"Yes, obviously. I don't understand your line of questioning, Lestrade. Yes. People call me for help. I solve their case. They pay me."

"Thought the money didn't interest you," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Money means nothing to me, but it is a necessity. Unfortunately I can't exactly live in London and not pay rent or eat.”

"Or spend thousands of pounds on designer clothing. Honestly Sherlock, I never thought you'd go in for something so irrelevant as vanity."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, as if I care how I look. However, one quickly learns how people perceive others. When I walk into a room a client turns to me with interest and respect, not with disdain."

Lestrade snickered. "They turn to you because you're a good-looking bloke. Course then you gotta do something stupid like open your mouth and all that's forgotten," he grinned. Sherlock shot him a strange look, almost as if he wasn't quite sure whether Lestrade had complimented him or insulted him. "Beauty is irrelevant, I don't understand _why_ some people put so much emphasis on something so unimportant. The work is all that should matter. Why are people so utterly useless?" he drawled, rhetorically. Lestrade shrugged. "People can't help but notice. You notice everything."

Sherlock looked bored. "People are idiots," he simply said, as if that answered everything. Lestrade mentally rolled his eyes. "Look, just be careful, okay? Finding granny's missing jewels is one thing, but chasing down a possible murderer is quite another. You're not a vigilante, Sherlock and I don't want to see you getting up to anything illegal." He scarfed down the last of his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Is that why you came here tonight? To warn me off?" Sherlock asked, lazily staring up at the ceiling.

"No. I'm not your mother, or your keeper. You're nearly thirty years oldand I'd like to think you can keep yourself out of trouble." Sherlock's lip quirked slightly, earning another eye roll from Lestrade. "Alright, I'm off. For god's sake eat the rest of your food, Sherlock," he admonished, swatting the younger man's knees before standing to leave.

"Lestrade. I hope you don't think that you can cease calling me for help whenever a proper case comes up," he said in all seriousness. Lestrade huffed a laugh. "God forbid I keep you away."

***

Lestrade tucked the folder under his arm and took a sip of his Starbucks with his free hand as he walked up to the building where Sherlock lived. The warm June sun energized Lestrade as he bounded up the three flights of stairs. He knocked and waited a surprising while before the door finally opened, revealing a very perplexed Sherlock.

"Was I expecting you?" he said by way of greeting. Lestrade stepped inside the flat. "No, but I come bearing gifts. He lifted the folder to show Sherlock. "Got some photos I'd like for you to look at and- what are you wearing?" he asked, finally noticing Sherlock's attire. The normally impeccably-dressed man was currently clothed in very loose-fitting lounge pants, and a very tight tank top that for some reason made his stomach flip pleasantly. His fingers were taped up.

"Sherlock..."

"I haven't the time for this, Lestrade, I was just heading out. I will see to your photos when I return."

"Hold up. Where exactly are you going like that?" Sherlock stormed past him. "Out."

Lestrade blocked the doorway. "Out where?" he insisted, curious and just a tad apprehensive. As if Sherlock could sense it, he dramatically rolled his eyes and grabbed Lestrade by the shoulder, budging him out of the way. "I'm going to spar. There. Satisfied? Now kindly _move_ before you make me tardy." Lestrade's eyes went wide as he took in that sentence.

"Spar? As in sparring? As in, fighting?" Sherlock grabbed a zip-up hoodie off the wall hook (Lestrade had to do a double take at that image as well) and hurriedly threw it on. " _Yes_ , Lestrade. As in jiu jitsu. Now get out of my flat already."

The older man had already backed out into the corridor without realizing it, staring at Sherlock as he hastily locked his door and swept downstairs without waiting for Lestrade to decide what to do. Blinking away the haze, Lestrade followed him.

"Since when do you do jiu jitsu?" he asked as Sherlock walked down the street, not bothering to hail a cab.

"Since I was thirteen," he called over his shoulder, a long suffering sigh following that (obvious) statement. Lestrade continued to stare at the retreating figure, shaking his head in befuddlement and just a hint of amusement. Sherlock Holmes knew martial arts. You learn something new every year...

The following day Sherlock stormed into Lestrade's office, throwing the file he'd brought on his desk. "Boring. Obvious. Some type of poison, though I'd have to go to Bart's to find out precisely what sort.” Lestrade frowned at the sudden barrage of _Sherlock_ and moved his meager lunch of a muffin and coffee out of the way. Sherlock flounced in the chair across from Lestrade's desk, legs crossed, hair a jumble of wind-swept curls. Lestrade looked him over casually, and immediately noticed his hands.

"Jesus, Sherlock, your hands..." He got up and walked around his desk to where Sherlock sat, sprawled in the chair. He reached over and was actually surprised Sherlock didn't pull away from him as he examined the battered and split knuckles on one hand, then the other. Sherlock looked around the office, indifferent.

"Hope you won," Lestrade muttered, stepping back and leaning against the edge of his desk. Sherlock turned his eyes to the older man, a wicked smile slowly spreading on his face. "I always win." Lestrade shook his head. "I don't doubt it." He continued to stare at the younger man sitting in his office like he belonged there, liked he'd always been there.

"Do you want to grab some lunch?" he suddenly asked him. Sherlock's eyes darted to the desk and the remnants of Lestrade's meal.

"A proper lunch," Lestrade emphasized. "I know you don't have a case on," he ventured as Sherlock stayed silent, contemplating. Finally Sherlock relaxed his shoulders and heaved a long sigh. "Fine. I suppose I could eat. Though I pick the place." He briskly stood up, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and waited for Lestrade to close his surprised yap.

"Oh! Right, great yeah. Course you can choose the place." He followed Sherlock out of the Yard, still shocked that Sherlock had agreed to that at all. In the end Sherlock settled on Thai, not normally something Lestrade would go for, but didn't utter a word of complaint against. All in all, it was a good day.

Lestrade learned early on that there were far more bad days with Sherlock than good ones. Conversation not related to a case was rare and down time was almost nonexistent. Sherlock was constantly moving, doing, solving. If he went a day without some sort of activity, he made Lestrade's life a nightmare.

His petulance was astounding, childlike in its immaturity. Texts came in droves throughout his workday, to the point that he had to shut his phone off. Simply put, if Sherlock was not busy with something, he was catatonic with boredom. Boredom led to trouble and Lestrade really didn't want to think of what that entailed. A year might seem like a long time, but Lestrade could recall with perfect clarity every miserable day Sherlock spent in his flat, detoxing. It was an experience Lestrade had no desire to repeat. He would absolutely kill Sherlock if he started using again.

He tried to stave off Sherlock's boredom with invites out to pubs, cafes, the park, anywhere of interest for that matter. Ninety percent of the time Sherlock rebuffed his offers, mostly without reason. Lestrade soon learned that Sherlock didn't care for being anywhere public for long bouts of time. He couldn't think properly, he had said. Too many inane idiots around. Too much noise, too much everything. Too much...

There were always clues, Lestrade supposed, but he thought it was just that he didn't want to spend any actual time with _him_. So he switched tactics, and started inviting him over to his own flat (other than for case-related matters). The first couple of times Sherlock declined, always citing a reason. Then one day after Lestrade finished his shift, Sherlock sitting opposite him ‘ _bored’_ , he got up and said, "Coming?" And Sherlock more or less followed him home.

It was an odd sort of arrangement. Sherlock never drank anything Lestrade offered, and barely ate. Or talked. He would sit or lay on the sofa, texting or typing away on Lestrade's laptop while Lestrade watched telly. Sometimes they would discuss a case. Mostly Lestrade did the talking, but not about cases. Sometimes Sherlock would grunt a response back if asked something moderately interesting.

He wasn't sure how this helped Sherlock with his boredom, but the company was nice. Even with his wife gone, he never noticed the silence until Sherlock was there to fill it. Lestrade never remarked on it, not wanting to spoil things.

Sometimes they yelled at each other and Sherlock would storm out, banging the door shut. The very rare times, Sherlock would bring his violin and play something Lestrade knew, making a game of it. Lestrade would try to guess whatever the younger man played, almost always losing. And then Lestrade would ask him if he knew a particular piece and Sherlock would play it. There was hardly anything Sherlock couldn't play. His eidetic memory was astounding, and he'd sit silently, content just to watch him play.

Depending on the night, he'd pass out on the couch and Sherlock would be gone by morning. Once or twice, he woke to Sherlock passed out next to him. He liked those mornings; it reminded him that Sherlock was indeed human.

***

One early winter day Sherlock walked into the Met and deposited a business card onto Lestrade's desk. The man picked it up, squinting at the writing. _'Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective.'_ He looked up from his chair. "Is this for real?" he asked, incredulous. Sherlock glared down at him, shoving his hands inside his coat pockets. "Don't be dense, Lestrade. Of course it's real. I thought it might be a good idea to get my own business card, with all the cases I've been getting lately," he explained in a derivative tone. Lestrade didn't know what to say. He could tell Sherlock was waiting for him to say something, anything. "Well, wow, Sherlock. So you...you're a..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stormed out of his office, leaving a very flabbergasted Detective Inspector staring in his wake.

Sherlock didn't bring it up again and neither did Lestrade. The next time they met up at a crime scene they spoke only of work matters and theories. Lestrade tried to discern whether this new venture of Sherlock's had reformed the man, whether for the better or would he be even more of an impossible twit.

So far he noted nothing different. So his success had not gone to his head-yet. He still wasn't quite sure what to make of all that. Was that what Sherlock did to stave off the boredom? He could bet his life savings Sherlock didn't give a rat's arse about the human element involved in all this. Nothing phased the man. Dead bodies and burnt corpses. Not even the little ones. He never witnessed a reaction, nor heard a mournful word pass from his lips. None of those lives mattered to Sherlock. He only found intrigue in their death. Lestrade secretly hated that thought. How could someone be so unfeeling?

Living this life daily for over a decade now, even he had days where he didn't want to crawl out of bed, or check out a gruesome murder scene. Whereas Sherlock gravitated towards it. The more macabre, the more gleeful Sherlock was. He kept his thoughts to himself, mostly. But on those days Lestrade just wants to scream at the stoic man, beat some sense of apathy into him. And the rare times he spoke up only earned him a scathing rebuke, leaving him angry and agitated.

He wondered about Sherlock's clients. Were they decent people? Did they appreciate Sherlock's help, or wish they'd never made the call? Did he insult them or degrade them? Show them exactly how idiotic and small-minded they were? It would be just like Sherlock to do so. And yet. Word of mouth was key and Sherlock's little side venture was certainly growing. People were apparently perfectly willing to put up with the likes of Sherlock Holmes to achieve their goal.

Lestrade should’ve been fine with that. It wasn’t his business. So why was he still thinking about it? He liked to think that nothing dangerous accompanied any of Sherlock's cases, but he also knew that Sherlock gravitated towards anything dark and intriguing. The man was reckless and cocky and Lestrade feared nothing good would come of it. Later that week, at his flat, he finally decided to bring it up.

"Sherlock, I hope you're not getting up to anything dangerous with your clients." Sherlock had his head in a case file and didn't even bother to indicate he'd heard the older man.

"Sherlock...."

The younger man sighed, slamming shut the file. "What I choose to do is my own business, Lestrade."

Lestrade stilled, as a defensive Sherlock was never a good sign of things to come. "It can be made my business, Sherlock. If you're getting into anything where the police should legally be involved then I really ought to know about it."

"Oh please. Spare me your false platitudes and stay out of my affairs. I don't tell you how to do your job," he spat.

"Actually, you do. Constantly. And don't get smart with me, Sherlock. I just don't want you doing anything stupid."

Sherlock stood to full height. "Well it's a good thing I'm not _you_ then, is it?"

Lestrade was properly angry now. "You're one to talk about stupidity! At least I never resorted to sticking needles in my arm to fend off my demons!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his body going unnaturally still. Lestrade knew he'd gone to far. In fact he hated bringing up Sherlock's drug use against him, knowing it wasn't entirely fair. He knew he should apologize. This wasn't him talking, he just loathed how Sherlock got under his skin so.

"Demons, Inspector?" Sherlock said, low pitched and ice cold. A flicker of his brow. "Your own wife can't even stand to be with you for more than a month before moving onto the next great love of her life. The situation suits you just fine, of course, since divorces can get fairly pricey. This flat is in your name but you know the moment the divorce is finalized-and it will be- you'll have to sell and pay marital support as her job doesn't afford her the benefits you currently receive at your work. She'll keep returning to you if only for stability and financial gains and while she wanted children, you did not...or could not...." he trailed off with a knowing glint. "Don't talk to me of demons, Inspector. You might live in your own little perfect oblivious fantasy world at work, but don't forget who you are dealing with here and now." He now stood a foot from Lestrade, who could barely breathe from the cold cruelty dripping from Sherlock's mouth. His arm reached out, grabbing Sherlock by his shirt front. He pulled him closer, until they were sharing the same breath. Sherlock's lips were parted in surprise, his eyes stormy and calculating.

"You fucking prick," Lestrade hissed, voice low. "You dare come to my home and presume to know my life? You dare judge me? After everything-" he snarled- " _everything_ I did for you? Tell me something, Sherlock. If you dropped dead tomorrow, would anyone weep for you? Would anyone _care_? Now get the fuck out of my house." He roughly pushed Sherlock away and stormed off towards his bedroom, slamming the door. He braced his back against the hard surface and tried to regulate his breathing. His head was pounding and his hands shook severely. After a moment he heard the tell-tale click of a door closing shut and he exhaled, sinking to the floor, cursing-not for the first time-the day he ever met Sherlock Holmes.

A week later and migraine at full force he was rummaging through tedious piles of paperwork at his desk when he got the call of double homicide. Sighing, he assembled his team and drove out to the location. As if by reflex he reached for his mobile to text Sherlock the info. Then he cursed himself halfway through the message, slamming shut his phone, earning him a strange look from Donovan.

Thinking Sherlock had some sixth sense he was almost waiting for him to materialize at some point during his time at the crime scene. It would be right up his alley. Two murders, no weapon, one partially cleaved off head. He'd have loved it. But Sherlock never showed up. Tense the whole evening, Lestrade didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He hadn't spoken to the younger man since the cringe worthy event at his flat a week prior.

Not a peep from Sherlock, not even via text. Guilt creeped up on Lestrade during random times of the day and night and he hated himself for giving in to it. He shouldn't feel guilt or remorse. Sherlock had it coming. He was practically baiting him and they both knew it. Still, the nagging little flicker of self-doubt rattled around in his mind, oozing down to his chest, settling there for a while before dissipating as it almost always did. And still no word from Sherlock.

He wasn't being childish he told himself. He didn't _need_ to call Sherlock for every case he got. He was a detective for Christ's sake and could handle his own lot without constantly deferring to Sherlock's expertise. So his phone stayed shut and Sherlock stayed away. Of course after two weeks of radio silence, Lestrade's nerves started to fray. By that point though, pride kept him from checking up at Sherlock's flat, or sending a quick text. Or even getting a hold of Mycroft to see if he'd heard from his brother. Sherlock was a grown man and it wasn't Lestrade's responsibility to keep tabs on him. Still, every time his phone pinged his heart would stammer in his chest while he stared at the screen. It was never Sherlock.

Three weeks into the double homicide case-without a solid lead- he knew he could use Sherlock's help. With trepidation, he typed in his message.

      _Would like your input, if you have a minute._

He waited nervously for some reply. Any reply. He'd even take a 'fuck off' at this point. Instead he got a:

_Twenty minutes. SH_

Relief coursed through him like a cool stream on a hot day. He just about collapsed in his chair when he got a call of assault and attempted murder. Cursing, he grabbed his coat and texted Sherlock the new location to meet up.

When he got to the scene the victim was wrapped up in a blanket, sobbing into someone's arms. Donovan led the way, cutting through the crowd of medics and other officers. Before Lestrade could start asking questions he saw Sherlock step out of a cab. He hurried over to him instead, raising his collar against the evening chill. Sherlock was already walking in his direction and they met up halfway. Sherlock stood tall, his shoulders straight and back, chin conspicuously lifted slightly.

Lestrade sighed, not really in the mood for attitude. "Thanks for coming," he said gruffly and he was about to turn back towards the scene of the crime when he froze, mouth open. With a disbelieving glare, he whirled on Sherlock, grabbing him by the wrist.

Looking straight into his face he found his lip curling in disgust. Bloodshot eyes stared straight through him, pupils blown. Forehead gleaming with a dampness not normally found during the middle of winter. He held on tighter, a sardonic huff blowing past his lips.

"Unbelievable. Fucking unreal you are, Holmes. Marcus!" He yelled at the nearest copper he saw. Said officer hurried up to them, glancing between them quizzically.

"Put him under arrest."

Wide, scandalous eyes stared back at him. 

"What the hell, Lestrade!" The Inspector clenched the wrist tighter, yanking him towards officer Marcus. "How dare you show your face here. Marcus. Search him and bag him. I think a night in lockup is precisely what Mr. Holmes needs." Officer Marcus grabbed Sherlock by the crook of his arm and procured his cuffs. Sherlock didn't put up a fight, just continued to glare at Lestrade's retreating figure.

Donovan was giving him a questioning look when he got back to the crime scene but he ignored her in favour of the terrified victim. He mostly had Sally communicating with the poor girl as he listlessly followed along. He nodded at the proper moments and eventually escaped halfway through the interview. He knew he could rely on Donovan so he went home. He needed to crash and just forget this night ever happened. He took a boiling shower, his muscles aching fiercely. Then he sank into his sofa, putting the telly to something mindless. He reached for his mobile, sending a text he really didn't want to.

      _Sure you've heard by now. Don't even think of yanking him out of there. One night won't kill him._

Less than thirty seconds later he got a response.

      _Indeed. Do give my brother my regards._

Lestrade shucked his phone away and tried to concentrate on what was on the telly and not on the betrayal he had glimpsed on Sherlock's face.

Come morning he was in a foul disposition, really not in the mood to deal with anything or anyone. He walked into the Met and didn't even bother to head to his office first, choosing instead to get the unpleasantries over with as soon as possible. Heading over to the holding cells, he approached one of the officers.

"How'd he do?" he asked with trepidation.

"Nothing on him. No marks either. Didn't say much. Don't think he slept at all neither." Lestrade nodded, feeling empty. "Open it."

The officer did as bade and Lestrade strolled in, arms crossed. Sherlock sat up on his cot, back against the concrete wall. One leg hung over the side while the other was propped up to his chest. He looked predictably bored, the gleam from his eyes faded. He looked odd without his big coat; smaller, more vulnerable. His head didn't move as Lestrade came in, but his eyes lazily flickered to Lestrade's.

"You are so unbelievably lucky there wasn't anything on you. Cause this time I doubt even your dear brother would want to have that dropped from your record." No response was forthcoming, as if he couldn't even be bothered to come up with one. Lestrade shook his head, dropping his arms.

"As much as I'd love to make it two nights, your stay I'm afraid is at an end. Go to the end of the hall to pick up your belongings. Though I'm sure you remember what to do since the last time you've been here," he finished, his tone too brittle to be mocking.

Sherlock's tongue flicked over his lower lip, almost contemplating a response. In the end, he settled for rising from his uncomfortable perch and following Lestrade out of the cell. Lestrade chatted with one of the officers while Sherlock gathered his things. He saw him don his coat, stuff his phone and wallet in his pockets, and after the smallest of pauses, he walked out of view. Lestrade didn't go after him.

A dark mood had settled inside of him, gnawing at him wherever he went. Work offered no reprieve and at home was worse because he just had more time to think. It was almost enough to start him smoking again and his self control was getting worse by the day. He hated feeling out of control and as much as he tried to restrain himself at work, people surely noticed. He could see the side glances, mostly from Donovan, as well as nervous babble floating randomly around the Met. Those close to him knew what had caused their Inspector to nearly have a nervous breakdown. But Lestrade just gave them the eye and everything quieted down.

No word from Sherlock since his stint in lockup nearly a fortnight later. He stopped by Bart’s to have a look at a body and ran into Molly Hooper. They got to talking and Lestrade casually asked if Sherlock had been around.

"Not for a few days. Came here on Wednesday asking for spare eyeballs." She giggled and blushed. Lestrade smiled sympathetically. Poor girl was smitten and that was a train wreck waiting to happen. He thanked her and went on his way. He stepped out to the kerb and was about to hail a cab when he suddenly changed his mind.

He was two minutes from Sherlock's flat, and suddenly that seemed to be the best idea in the world. He walked down the road towards Montague Street. He stared up in foreboding at Sherlock's building, not knowing why he had come or what he would say. Still, this heavy feeling in his chest pressed him forward and then he was at Sherlock's door, knocking. The door clicked open with a cautious sound. Sherlock stood on the threshold, looking impeccable and properly surprised.

"Lestrade," he said with a befuddled quirk of his brow.

"Sherlock...yea, hi." He looked down, raking a hand through his hair. "Can I come in?" Quietly, Sherlock stepped aside, eyes on the older man. As soon as he was inside though he suddenly thought this was the worst mistake ever. He had no idea what he was even doing there and he didn't know what to say. Sherlock stood very straight, hands clasped behind his back. Clearly he was waiting for Lestrade to say something judging by his aloof composure. The Inspector took a step away from the younger man, feeling suddenly overwhelmed in his presence. He took a deep breath, finally able to look him in the eye.

Clearly no explanation or apology was forthcoming from Sherlock, and that didn't surprise him- Sherlock didn't _do_ apologies. But guilt wracked Lestrade's brain and he could no longer keep silent, no matter how much Sherlock irritated or disappointed him.

"Look...now I'm not excusing anything you did. And you did some stupid things, Sherlock. I'm not gonna pretend I'm still not completely furious with you." Sherlock's expression didn't change, almost like he was waiting for the shoe to drop. Lestrade rolled his shoulders, looking down, before meeting Sherlock's eyes again. "But I still shouldn't have said what I said to you. Before. I didn't mean to imply-" he cut off, because it _hurt_ to remember the heat of his words, said out of spite and anger, retribution for Sherlock's own barbs. And Lestrade had retaliated cruelly and unfairly, throwing Sherlock's past right in his face.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, his heart a tornado in his chest. Sherlock blinked, clearly not anticipating any of that. He momentarily looked away and Lestrade took it as his cue to leave. He was already at the door when Sherlock's voice stopped him in his tracks. "Lestrade." The gravelly sound paired with the impossible blues of his eyes froze Lestrade where he stood, waiting for whatever he had to say. For Sherlock didn't waste words or participate in idle chatter. A slow blink, followed by a quirk of his lip, mirthless and dreary.

"You were right, of course. If I died, no one would miss me, and no one would care."

Lestrade's heart shuddered, pain blasting from the tips of his fingers to his very marrow. "Don't say that," he said hoarsely. “Don't you dare say that. If I didn't care, I wouldn't have dragged your ass to the hospital, or invited a practical stranger to stay with me for weeks," he said firmly.

"You're the only one," Sherlock said quietly, matter of fact.

Lestrade wanted to deny it, but deep down he knew it was probably true. Sherlock offended everyone he met and his brain couldn't come up with a single person-and he was including Mycroft in this query- that would do for Sherlock what he himself had done. He was both despondent and strangely touched. The look on Sherlock's face as he stared at Lestrade pretty much confirmed his previous statement.

"That may be, though God only knows why I bother." And that didn't come out quite right judging by Sherlock's sudden tensing.

"Jesus, I'm mucking this up. Look, what I'm saying is, I _wanted_ to do all those things. It wasn't out of any obligation and it wasn't just so you could help me out with cases- don't you _dare_ stand there and think it, Holmes, because I can practically hear _you_ thinking it. You don't have to believe me, but I'm kinda standing out on a limb for you. I vouched for you and I will continue to do so. Don't make me a liar, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood silent and still, contemplating Lestrade's words. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair, a nervous gesture Lestrade had come to recognize.

"Listen, I gotta get going. I just wanted to check in, make sure you were keeping out of trouble," he said with a half-hearted grin. Sherlock nodded with a tired air, and Lestrade turned away, heading for the stairs. He heard the slow click of the door closing behind him as he descended, cold air blasting him as he stepped outside. Before he even stepped onto the pavement, his phone pinged, a text waiting.

_I too regret my previous choice of words. SH_

Lestrade stared at the words on screen with a pained expression, his heart clenching. It was more than he ever expected and more than he'll probably ever get. And still so very unexpected. He didn't know what to do or how to respond. So he snapped his phone shut and stuck it in his pocket. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted an acknowledgement anyway.

 

 


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Mature Content.

Lestrade left St. Bart's, grumbling under his breath. His arms held a parcel, given to him by Molly, to be then given to Sherlock, _poste haste_ , were Molly's exact words. Delivery boy he was not and yet there he was, hurrying over to Sherlock's flat with a mysterious package in his arms. He adjusted the parcel as he entered Sherlock's building, damp with perspiration. Not even April but the weather had been kind to them for once. Still, he couldn't wait to remove his jacket. He bounded up the stairwell and knocked on Sherlock's door. He heard a muffled _come in_ so he turned the knob and walked inside.

The first thing he noticed was that Sherlock was in the midst of packing. He walked to and fro, gathering items, and depositing them on his sofa next to a large suitcase. He went in and out of the bedroom, carrying various articles of clothing and other effects. The second thing he noticed was the noxious fumes coming from the direction of the kitchen. He sniffed in disgust and placed Sherlock's package on the table, finally removing his jacket. "Got something for you. From Molly." Sherlock peeked his head out of the bedroom, eyes going wide.

"Ah, yes! My spleen. Perfect timing." And he ducked back out of sight. Lestrade stood still for a moment.

"Sherlock. Mind telling me why I carried a spleen three blocks to your flat?" he said, hands on hips. Sherlock returned, socks in hand. He carelessly dropped them into the open suitcase, glancing down for a beat in contemplation. Then he noticed Lestrade.

"Oh that. Nothing to concern yourself with. Merely experimenting. Molly's been _most_ helpful." And he was off again.

"I'm sure she has," Lestrade said with a disbelieving smirk. "So, you going somewhere?"

Sherlock's voice resonated from the other room. "Florida. Where _is_ my belt?" Lestrade blinked and went to find Sherlock in his room. The younger man was on his knees, searching under his bed for his belt...apparently.

"Florida? Thought you needed a holiday?" he joked, leaning against the doorframe. Sherlock's head popped up, scowling. "Don't be obtuse, Lestrade. I have a case there. And it sounds entirely delightful." He huffed, standing up, eyes roaming the room. They landed on Lestrade. "Why are you here again?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Doing you a favour, apparently, cause you couldn't be arsed to pick up your own bloody body parts at Bart's." Sherlock ignored his sarcasm. "I don't have time to run errands, Lestrade. I have to pack and finish up my experiment _and_ solve that Dillard's case for you." Lestrade huffed. “Don't bother, why do you think I was at Bart's? Confirmed suicide. Overdose."

Sherlock's eyebrows dipped, confusion reigning on his face for a split second. Lestrade had come to enjoy that look, so rare it was to see it on the younger man's face. "I see. Well, if it's confirmed..." he trailed off, glancing at Lestrade, who nodded assuredly. "You are now officially free from any further obligations for the Yard."

Sherlock gave him a look he knew all too well. The don't-be-an-idiot look. He grinned good naturally. "So how long you'll be away for?"

Sherlock sighed, and resumed his hasty packing. "Not sure. Not too long, I hope. I have a few details from the wife. Seems extremely anxious to meet with me."

"If she lives in Florida, how'd she even hear of you?" Lestrade asked.

"She moved to Florida after getting married. She's originally from here, and some relation or other recommended me to her. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning." They had moved back to the living room, Sherlock snapping his luggage closed.

"Well, bring sunscreen," Lestrade mentioned.  Sherlock visibly grimaced. "Never could abide that stuff." He blinked at Lestrade. "Oh, did you want tea or something?"

Lestrade laughed, shaking his head. "Nah, gotta get back to work. Listen, you stay out of trouble, you hear? And for God's sake clean up whatever you're working on before the landlord evicts you while you're away." Sherlock sat down on the arm of the sofa, looking drained. 

"God, I already miss London. Traveling is so tedious. How am I going to survive the eight hour flight?" he asked morosely. Lestrade thought it over and mentally cringed.

"Sleeping pills," he deadpanned eventually, though Sherlock looked at him curiously. He slapped him on the shoulder. "Right then, I'm sure you'll manage. Keep in touch, yea?"

"What for?" Sherlock asked lazily.

"Cause I'll miss my assistant, that's why," Lestrade quipped, resulting in another eye-roll.

"Whatever will the Yard do without me?" Sherlock replied mockingly. Lestrade grabbed his jacket, hastily pulling it on. "Well, there's always Anderson," he taunted, and walked away without seeing Sherlock's expression.

He was in a good mood as he took a cab back to work. Things had been going well, both with work and in regards to Sherlock. The man showed up whenever Lestrade texted him, and got the job done. He never showed up high, and Lestrade never asked him if he was still clean. He didn't want to open up that can of worms again. So long as he remained his lovable, arrogant self he was welcome to his crime scenes.

Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He knew Lestrade meant business. Furthermore, random visits to Sherlock's flat revealed nothing nefarious or dangerous. If Sherlock was at home, he was usually idling over a microscope, or lazing on the couch, large tome in hand. Or browsing the internet or madly texting away on his new mobile. "It's called an iPhone, Lestrade, and I've increased the rate with which I text by forty percent. I suggest you purchase one as well."

They never spoke about their previous arguments, or things said out of hostility and malice. Truthfully he was glad it wasn't awkward and that things resumed as they were. Though the atmosphere started off tense upon Sherlock's first visit back to a crime scene with a frosty reception from Donovan, Sherlock ignored her and everyone else in favour of the work, conversing only with Lestrade when he reviewed his findings. Since then, Sherlock hadn't faltered or given any indication that things weren't copacetic.

He looked healthy, he looked...good, completely put together. Lestrade didn't want to hope too much, knowing how much one little setback could alter things dramatically. Sherlock texted him sometimes, randomly at all hours of the day. Lestrade didn't really feel like putting an end to it. The alternative was radio silence and Lestrade hated that feeling. He liked being in constant contact with Sherlock; it made him feel better about things.

Of course two days after Sherlock's departure Lestrade still hadn't heard a whisper from him. Thinking he was just too engrossed in whatever, Lestrade let it go. A week went by before he caved, fingers at his keys.

      _How's Florida?_

He got back an almost instant reply.

_Not now. Busy. SH_

Lestrade blinked down at his mobile. "Arse," he grumbled, mildly relieved at a response of any kind.

A new case kept him mostly busy, though he wouldn't mind the input from a certain Consulting Detective. His team at the Met had a laugh about that. The only one of his kind. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Of course, the joke was entirely on them as Sherlock's little business kept blooming. He'd been off to Lisbon, and to Prague and recently came back from Stockholm.

He never really spoke of any of his cases to Lestrade, unless the Inspector specifically asked after them. It wasn't that Lestrade didn't feel inquisitive, it was just that he didn't like to pry, knowing how Sherlock could be. Still, whenever Lestrade called him for a case matter, he was there, unless he was out of town. The Met didn't pay him of course. Hell, some of Lestrade's superiors didn't even know what Sherlock did for them, but Sherlock never seemed to mind. In fact he enjoyed it. The anonymity was ideal for him, as long as he got to do the work.

The next day after Sherlock's brush off he returned home to find his wife making tea in the kitchen. He was struck dumb for a moment before finally shutting the door.

"Hello, Greg."

He stared at her as he took off his jacket and dumped his keys on the table.

"Deb. Wha' you doing here?"

"I still live here, you know."

He scoffed. "You haven't set foot here in months, as much as I can tell. So what are you doing here now?"

She nervously fiddled with her mug, bringing it over to the table and taking a seat. She looked up at her husband, beseeching. "Greg...I wanted to apologize. For the way things played out. I never meant- I didn't want to hurt you. And I know I did. But, I've had a lot of time to think things over and I feel- I just feel like being here again is- well, it feels right. Like the right thing to do."

Lestrade stared at her, incredulous. She saw what was on his face and stood, walking over to stand right in front of him. "I am so sorry, Greg. I truly am. I didn't even think of what I was doing, and how much it would hurt you. I...I'm going to go to therapy. I really want to make this work again. Please believe me. I don't want to give this up." And then she placed her hand on his shoulder. When he finally realized what she was doing he recoiled, anger burning in his eyes.

"Have you gone insane? What do you mean you want to work things out? After what you've done! You left me for another man, Deb! You moved out to _be_ with another man! How can you expect me to just be okay with that!" He was shaking so much he didn't even realize it until he rubbed at his jaw in frustration and noticed the tremors.

Deb's eyes were filling and he couldn't stand the sight suddenly. He made a sound of disgust, hastily grabbing his keys and storming out. His heart was pounding madly and his ears were filled with the ominous sound of blood pumping. He walked without purpose but soon found himself inside the corner shop, paying for a packet of smokes. He didn't even wait before he was fully out of the shop before lighting up, for once not hating himself for it. He leaned against the brick of the building and inhaled, eyes shut, desperately trying to ignore what just transpired. Breathing returning to normal, he dropped his fag and scrunched it with his shoe. Then he took out his mobile.

      _Busy?_

_Yes. SH_

He sighed, his chest aching. He reached for another cigarette, placed it between his lips.

      _Sorry. Bad day._

He didn't even know why he was telling Sherlock. He was a million miles away and it wasn't like he would care anyway. He lit up, waiting for a response. It came later than expected.

      _What's happened? SH_

Surprised to find the younger man so inquisitive, he didn't know how to respond. He took a deep puff, loathing his wife with every fibre of his being. Not even Sherlock could drive him to this, he thought, bewildered. But one conversation with Deb and months and months of restraint gone in an angry flash.

      _Lestrade? SH_

He hadn't realized he was blankly gazing down at his screen, the cool air biting at his fingertips.

      _Sorry. It's nothing, Sher. Sorry to bother you. Hope things are going well in sunny Florida._

He shut his mobile, stuffing it into his jacket. He finished his second cigarette and hailed a cab to the Yard. He refused to go back to his flat in his current state. At least he could be by himself for a while at work, unmolested.

It was coming to one a.m. and Lestrade was still at his desk, halfheartedly looking over a case file. A sudden shrill sound filled the quiet of the room before he realized it was his phone. He glanced at the caller ID, frowning. Swallowing, he flipped it open.

"Hey, Sherlock."

"Inspector. Working late this evening?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "How do you know where I am, Sherlock?" He could almost _hear_ the sigh from across the Atlantic. 

"Nevermind the boring details. I'm assuming you came in contact with your wife today," the voice stated. Now it was Lestrade's turn to sigh. He was too tired and long past impressed with Sherlock's deductions to ask him how he figured that out. Instead he dug his fingertips into his scalp.

"Yeah....yes. She paid me a little visit today. For all I know, she's still there in my fucking flat, drinking my fucking tea," he bit out. There was silence on the other end. Lestrade pressed his forehead to the cool metal of his desk.

"Bitterness doesn't suit you, Lestrade," Sherlock said finally. Then, "She came back because she wants to work things out with you. Obviously. And you're hiding at work to avoid another confrontation, hence at this particular time you have no wish to reconcile with her. You can just ask her to leave, you know," he finished.

Lestrade shut his eyes and clenched the phone tight to his ear. "Even you know it isn't that simple, Sherlock. Anyway, I'd rather not talk about it right now," and meant it.

"Then why did you text me?"

Lestrade sighed, sitting back in his chair. He felt a migraine coming on as he rubbed his tired eyes. "Not for marital advice," he weakly joked. Why had he contacted Sherlock?

_Because you miss him_ , his brain provided. Inwardly groaning, knowing it was true and knowing he couldn't possibly ever say that to Sherlock, he tried to come up with another explanation. Fortunately, Sherlock beat him to it. "Look, I have to go, there are...things falling into place this evening and I really must get back. If all pans out, I shall be back by weeks' end."

Lestrade brightened at that. "Sounds good. Stay safe, Sherlock."

"Always, Inspector," Sherlock responded, exasperated. They hung up, Lestrade feeling strangely better. Just hearing the other man's voice brought about a moment's respite from the madness in his head. It grounded him and he looked forward to Sherlock's return. In the meantime, he really had to deal with matters at home.

When he made it home at two in the morning, his flat was blissfully empty. Deb had left a note on the refrigerator stating she would be at her mother's house and when he felt up for it, to get in contact with her. He crumpled the note and binned it. He grabbed a couple of pills for his head and passed out on the couch.

By weeks' end actually turned out to be two weeks later. Lestrade was at his desk engrossed with paperwork when a shadow fell over his desktop. He looked up and grinned.

"Christ, you look red." He stood and slapped Sherlock on the shoulder, earning him a glare. "Didn't I tell you to use sunscreen? You're all flushed and lobster-like." It was mostly true. Sherlock's cheeks and forehead had a bright, rosy glow, while some slight peeling was going on with the tip of his nose. The younger man looked miffed at Lestrade's amused expression.

"I did use the damned sunscreen. I just never reapplied," he bemoaned with a huff, finally taking a seat. He was wearing his typical expensive suit ensemble, complete with his favourite overcoat. The only difference to his appearance was his colourful face and his hair, which looked to be recently clipped. Sherlock noticed him staring.

"Mycroft's barber." He shuddered." I don't understand why Mycroft continues to use him, he's practically ninety years old," he drawled. Lestrade sat back in his chair. "Then why’d you go to him to get your hair cut?"

Sherlock lazily looked up at the ceiling. "Because I don't have time to waste searching for a barber and he's on call all the time." He sighed dramatically. "It _was_ getting a bit long anyway," he said, running his long fingers hazardly through the freshly shorn locks. Lestrade fought not to look away. He coughed, shuffling paperwork. "So everything went well did it? Got your man?" he asked lightly.

"Of course. Took a bit longer than expected but they're looking at the death penalty. Might get the chair," he said with a mischievous gleam in his eye. Lestrade stilled his movement and stared.

"The chair? Sherlock, what in God's name have you been getting involved with over there? That's capital punishment! How did you even get tangled in something like this?" he asked, incredulous. Sherlock had settled comfortably in his chair, shoulders relaxed, head cocked at Lestrade with a languid expression.

"I'm starved. Indian?"

Lestrade blinked at the segue but, shaking his head in disbelief, he grabbed his coat and indicated for Sherlock to get up from his comfortable perch. They walked to a place nearby that Lestrade had always liked. After placing their orders, Lestrade leaned forward across from Sherlock and said: "Alright. Spill. Now."

Sherlock grinned Cheshire-like, and proceeded to tell Lestrade, in intricate detail mostly everything that had happened upon arriving in Miami, including complaints about the heat, the people, the food and the accommodations. The parts about the actual case horrified Lestrade. Drug cartels, prostitutes, guns for hire, murder. With every word Sherlock grew more animated and Lestrade could only stare in distressed silence. Sherlock was suddenly ripping into the naan, biting off a huge chunk and Lestrade hadn't even realized they’d brought the food out.

"Oh if you were only there Lestrade, you would have loved it! The way it was done, so ingenious and elegant- it’s no wonder nobody knew for months what was going down." He stopped to dip his naan into the mango curry sauce.

"Jesus, Sherlock." He had nothing else to say, or at least nothing he could say without risking Sherlock's wrath. A drug cartel? Not a good mix. And as if by cue Sherlock had leveled a look at Lestrade, almost plucking his thoughts from his mind.

"I'm _clean_ ," he emphasized with an annoyed billow, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. The Inspector waved the admission away, somehow knowing he was being told the truth. "I know you are, Sherlock. It's just this whole thing sounds completely insane. And just a bit dangerous."

Sherlock scoffed, already diving into his next bite. "Please. The police in Florida are even more incompetent than your guys, if you can imagine that."

Lestrade ignored the jibe. "Well, I'm just glad you're back. Burnt and all," he grinned. Sherlock pursed his lips but said nothing. Then his eyes lit up. "Oh! I haven't even told you the best part yet." He paused to wipe his mouth and then leaned forward on the table, fingers laced together. "The wife of the accused, Mrs. Hudson...She's actually going to be moving back to London to take up residence in her family's home which she inherited after her father died. She's already told me I can take the flat above her if I wanted to." He looked jovial and not unlike a child at the moment. Lestrade couldn't stop the smile from forming.

"That's great, Sherlock. Where abouts?"

"Baker Street. Prime location. Really ideal. I wasn't exactly thinking of moving. So tedious, plus I'm currently near Bart’s so that will be an annoyance. But the rent she's offering is too enticing to pass up. We shall see. In the meantime, I have to go!" And with that he stood up, dropped some bills on the table and buttoned his coat. Lestrade sat, still eating, mouth full.

"Oy! Can you at least wait til I'm done over here!" Sherlock was already moving away. "No time, Inspector. I've got things to see to. Call me when you have a case!" He was out of the restaurant before the last word was heard, and Lestrade sat there wide-eyed, swearing under his breath.

***

To his annoyance, he started receiving daily texts from his wife. While at work, during briefings, in the loo, getting out of the cab. They all revolved around a central theme: How sorry she was, how wrong she was, how badly she wants to go back to the way things were.

He never responded because he had no clue what to say to her. He didn't know what he wanted to do. But every time his phone made a sound he'd cringe and soon started turning it to silent just for a bit of peace. He was constantly thinking about the dilemma and it only increased his smoking habit.

He was outside, near the Met’s side alleyway lighting up for the second time that hour, when a voice startled him.

"Got a light?"

His hand went instinctively to his gun. "Christ, Sherlock! You can't just sneak up to someone like that in a fucking alleyway!" He could almost hear the grin.

"I did no such thing. I was told you were out here. I approached. It's not my fault you were brooding and didn't notice me."

"Wasn't brooding," he mumbled automatically. Sherlock walked up next to Lestrade, back against the wall. He took out his own cigarette and Lestrade automatically passed him his lighter.

"I thought you'd quit," Sherlock said, not at all surprised. Lestrade shrugged. "Thought you'd like some company once in a while. Figured I'd start back up again."

Sherlock stared ahead, puffing slowly on his cigarette. Lestrade could only fathom what he was thinking about. The silence stretched until Lestrade stomped his own fag out. Stuffing his hands in his coat pockets he shuffled his feet, not really wanting to get back to his desk so soon. "So what brings you here?" he asked Sherlock.

The younger man looked strangely comfortable, leaning against the hard stone, expertly taking drag after drag of his expensive cigarette. Sherlock always was a snob. Claimed he knew everything there was to know about ash, like it was relevant to anything. Even had a website listing them all... Lestrade looked away from the dark hair, stirring slightly in the cool breeze, the steel eyes, lidded slightly, taking pleasure in his addiction.

"Had nothing on," Sherlock replied softly with another shrug. For some reason Lestrade thought there was more that Sherlock wanted to say. Or hoped he might say. Lestrade hoped Sherlock stopped by just to see him. Why else would he bother to seek him out? Sherlock was avoiding his eyes as well.

Lestrade knew Sherlock didn't _do_ social visits. He supposedly didn't do a lot of things, but now Lestrade wasn't so sure. There were chinks in the armor, Lestrade himself had seen them. He suddenly wanted to know what else he could discover about the mysterious young detective.

"Well, I'm almost finished here. Thought about going to the pub after. Wanna join me?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage. Sherlock let out one last puff and dropped his own cigarette, using the point of his overpriced shoe to crunch it. Hands stuffed into his great overcoat he didn't react in any way to Lestrade's proposal, choosing to glance around, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Lestrade raised his brows. "Sherlock?"

A deep sigh followed as blue-green eyes met Lestrade's. Whatever Sherlock thought he saw in the older man's face must have made his mind up because suddenly he was standing tall away from the wall, brows low, a resigned look to his face.

"Fine. Just nothing loud or annoying." He walked out of the alleyway, leaving a stunned Lestrade to follow after him.

After finishing things up in his office they made their way back towards Lestrade's flat and a pub he knew quite well. It being a Wednesday evening he doubted it would be terribly busy but they still chose a quieter booth spot away from the ruckus of the bar patrons.

Lestrade shrugged off his light jacket while Sherlock kept his on, tight around his frame like a security blanket. They each ordered a pint to start, Lestrade chugging half of his down in the first five minutes. Sherlock sipped on his like he wasn't used to the taste, but never complained. He was quiet and Lestrade knew he'd stay that way unless he made the first move. Sherlock didn't believe in social conversations and this certainly qualified. He polished off his pint and quickly ordered another.

"So how're your cases going?" Better start with a safe topic, he thought. Didn't want to annoy Sherlock so soon into their evening.

"Steady. I've had a few interesting phone calls. No murders or anything but at this point I can't exactly pick and choose." He shrugged, taking another sip. "I assume you didn't ask me here to discuss work however," Sherlock said knowingly.  He pushed his glass aside and leaned forward, intertwining his long fingers together. Lestrade sighed.

"I just needed a night out. Company's always nice." He looked down at his nearly empty glass, all the while feeling Sherlock's icy gaze on him.

"You have friends at work, Lestrade. Why not one of them? Sally even?"

Lestrade had no answer to that. He actually didn't even consider asking any of them out tonight. He'd known most of them for years. Some since before he made Detective. Why was it Sherlock's company he wanted? The one person on the planet that didn't give a shit about anyone's personal issues or feelings. Now it was his turn to shrug.

"I actually wanted to be alone but then you showed up. Figured you already know all about my problems so there's no point in pretending. Like I said, I like the company, even if it is the silent type."

Sherlock appeared to mull this over. "I don't have to be silent. But you won't like what I have to say."

Lestrade grinned into his raised glass. "I almost never do." He finished it off, setting it back down on the table with a loud ding. "Course I did sit through you puking your guts out for days so I suppose an hour of me rambling won't do you much harm," he smirked jokingly at Sherlock. The younger man inclined his head as if to say _proceed_ , and actually drained his own glass in one go. Lestrade was impressed. They ordered another round and Lestrade started to speak.

Two hours later, Sherlock had unwound his scarf and actually unbuttoned his coat while Lestrade rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows. His hands were gesticulating wildly while Sherlock occasionally looked down at his glass, at the other patrons, at the sticky floor, and from time to time, at Lestrade.

"For years it was only her. Just her. No one could compare and no one else mattered. And I was bloody stupid to think she thought the same. And all this time! God!" He paused for a drink, his throat parched. "And who's to say she's telling the truth now? How many other men were there that I don't know about? And what's to stop her from going off again in a year. In six months...And I'll be the fool who took her back." He shook his head in self-loathing, peeking over at Sherlock, who was nursing his third pint, finger running along the rim, over and over. He looked utterly bored but Lestrade could tell his words were being heard at least. He'd never seen him refrain so long from speech. He felt a bit silly for going on so long. Also, he felt a bit tanked-up.

"Sorry, I don't mean to drop my troubles on your lap. God if only I had you around when I met her. You would have seen right through her," he said, shaking his head and wishing it were true. He could have saved himself years of wasted time. "I did love her once. I'm not even sure when I stopped. Do you just stop loving someone?" he asked rhetorically. His words were starting to slur but his mouth wouldn't stay shut.

"I'm afraid you're asking the wrong person", Sherlock said, eyeing disdainfully the scene at the bar.

"Yea, but you've been with people. You know how it feels," Lestrade replied with droopy eyes. Sherlock's eyes darted over to his, cold and irate.

"Yes, I've been with people, but let's not bring love into this conversation, shall we? Love is nothing more than a fairy tale told to young children, like Father Christmas or the Tooth Fairy. It's just a chemical reaction that you can either give in to, knowing it's false and temporary, or fight and be intelligent about it." He pushed his glass away in disgust. "You are the perfect example, Lestrade. Your mind has been warped and twisted into believing something that's not there. You let another person have control of you, body and mind, and look where it's led you. Sitting in a pub for nearly three hours cursing her every which way you know how and still not able to let go of her, even after knowing what she did. I can't comprehend that."

Lestrade leaned back in his booth and stared at Sherlock. That was the most he'd spoken all night and even with his alcohol ladled mind he was sure it all made sense. Except the part about love being a myth. Love was real. He knew it. Hell if you loved your parents you knew it was real, there was no other word for it. Yes, love made you do crazy, insane things. People died for love. Maybe that was Sherlock's point. Did his love for Deb cloud his mind so much he wasn't aware of what she was doing to him? He couldn't even bear to think of it. How does one trust again after being with someone so heartless?

"Do you not love your brother? Or your parents?" he boldly asked Sherlock. The other man frowned. "Don't be dense, Lestrade. Familial love is _not_ what we are discussing here. The need to protect your family, to honor your family, that does not equate to losing your mind and falling into a pit of self despair and pity. This is just pathetic," he gestured at Lestrade with a wrinkle of his nose.

"Do you think I should tell her to fuck off? Once and for all?" He swayed as he leaned forward, needing badly to hear Sherlock's answer.

The younger man heaved with impatience, eyeing Lestrade with contempt. "I think you know me well enough by now not to ask me stupid questions. What's the point of asking me something you already know the answer to?"

Lestrade's brows rose in despair and he watched Sherlock's face soften marginally. "She is a fool to choose another man," he said with conviction. Then he pulled out his billfold and dropped some money on the tabletop. Lestrade watched him in detached wonder and didn't say another word. Sherlock stood, wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat up. Then he looked down and pursed his lips at Lestrade.

"Come on." He stretched out his arm and Lestrade lazily grabbed it, getting to his feet. His vision swam and the room definitely tilted. He held on with his fingertips to the edge of the table as Sherlock tried to help him with his coat. Christ he was pissed. He had no idea how many pints he’d had but it was probably quite a bit if he couldn't even get his coat on by himself. Then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, leading him out of the pub.

The brisk air woke him up a bit as they walked. He noticed they weren't getting a cab which meant more walking than he cared for in his present state. Sherlock said nothing, just stayed close in case he stumbled or tripped. When they reached Lestrade's flat, Sherlock held open the door and walked behind him as they got into the lift. When they reached his door, Lestrade fumbled for the keys but they were swiped away by Sherlock's cold fingers. Door open, Sherlock waited for Lestrade to enter first before closing the door behind them.

Lestrade groaned from the effort of removing his coat as Sherlock turned the overhead lights on. He squinted at the sudden harshness. The brisk walk had cleared his head a bit but now, back at home he was just feeling sleepy. His phone suddenly buzzed and he reached into his trouser pocket and grabbed it, squinting at the caller ID. It was her. Something must have shown on his face for Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, expertly retrieving the phone from his grasp. He didn't say anything as he blindly hit the End button, his eyes never leaving Lestrade's. Then Sherlock chucked the phone across the room to land on the sofa. Lestrade didn't even bother to look to see if it landed safe. Not when Sherlock's face was less than a foot away.

Even in his inebriated state his heart pounded wildly in his chest, his cheeks prickled with warmth and his breathing was becoming harder to regulate. From his current distance he could see that Sherlock's checks were also flushed, though he expected that was more from the cold than anything. His eyes were guarded but alert, dilating slowly. His hair was a mess, strands scattered all over from the late spring breeze and Lestrade resisted the urge to fix it. He was staring and he knew it. His smile was crooked as he said, "Thanks for that."

Sherlock slowly blinked. "She doesn't deserve you." Lestrade's heart flipped at the softly spoken words, his breath hitching. He didn't know what to do with his hands; they were suddenly shaking. Sherlock still hadn't moved away and Lestrade saw the slightest quirk of his brow, inquisitive, perceptive. His eyes remained curiously blank, not giving Lestrade much to work with. And yet, he wasn't backing away.

Lestrade knew, somewhere deep in his alcohol-addled brain, as he glimpsed Sherlock's long eyelashes flutter, that this was a bad idea. One of his worst, no doubt. But something about Sherlock's words, spoken with surety and twinged with a sorrow he hoped he wasn't imagining, was unhinging a small part of his brain he vowed he'd never give in to.

The five plus pints he slaughtered made him bold then. He could see himself reflected in Sherlock's stunning eyes, the different flecks of blue and gold and green swirling, hypnotizing...His head swooned but before he could lose his nerve he moved- his hands came up and found Sherlock's cheeks and he crossed the few inches remaining as his mouth found Sherlock's.

Totally and completely numb he pressed his lips against the younger man's, almost reverently. He could feel Sherlock stiffen in surprise but he didn't back away and that only emboldened him further. His fingers slowly moved from his cheeks to his silky black hair, sliding along his scalp, pulling him closer. The mouth under his was pliant, yet deliciously firm. He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed another man but surely it hadn't felt this good. It was like a dam bursting free and he poured all his hunger into the kiss, never wanting it to end and fearing what might happen when it did.

Finally, after what felt like moments of agony but in reality was probably only seconds long, Lestrade released Sherlock's supple lips, breath leaving his parted mouth, shaky and vulnerable. His hands were still touching Sherlock's face, his cheeks, tracing the obscene cheekbones, down to the now swollen lips, past his chin, feeling the stubble just beginning to form, and finally settling on his shoulders, more for support than anything else.

Eyes half-lidded he feared what he would see in those frigid eyes. But he dared a glimpse and found them inviting, pupils blown in a way that had nothing to do with drugs or alcohol. If he wasn't so plastered he could have tried to decipher the secrets that were contained within the glowing orbs that now stared at Lestrade with an intensity he'd never before imagined possible.

In a split second however it was gone, shuttered with the blink of an eye. Sherlock slowly reached his arm up, placing his hand over Lestrade's, still glued to his shoulder. He carefully disengaged himself and wordlessly led Lestrade to his bedroom. Calmly, he walked him to the edge of his bed and made him sit. He crouched down and unlaced his shoes, first one, then the other. Getting the hint, Lestrade sighed, eyes getting heavier by the second in the darkness, and laid down flat against the pillows. Eyes already closed he could feel the heavy blankets being pulled over him. Nearly passed out he hoped he hadn't imagined the feel of cool fingers running through his short hair, lulling him to sleep.

His first thought upon waking was _holy fucking headache_. His second, which came precisely six seconds later was _oh my fucking god_. He shot up, his pulse racing, his heart hammering in his chest, threatening to tear free. He shut his eyes as a wave of nausea mixed with a deep feeling of mortification overcame him and he leaned forward, willing the horrible feeling away. It was useless. He mentally cursed.

His memory might have been a bit fuzzy around the edges but he could never forget the feel of Sherlock's lips against his own. Could never forget his coarse fingers grazing over the sculpted face or the heat of his mouth so warm and inviting, burning his tongue as he breached the swollen lips. It had been part desire and part agony, his alcohol infused self fighting for control and quickly losing. And Sherlock, standing there, not backing away and not really encouraging him either.

He cringed, his hand coming up to rub at his brow, at the headache that was part hangover, part his mind simply rebelling from visualizing the scene from the last night. Despair and embarrassment coursed through him and a sudden panic seized him as he thought, _now what_? What had he done? He had invited Sherlock out and then practically assaulted him right in his kitchen, like a drunken teenager, desperate for a snog. And Sherlock hadn't said a word, had looked at Lestrade with what? Pity? Sadness? Indifference? He didn't know which was worse.

He might have potentially ruined whatever friendship he had with Sherlock, with a stupid, drunk, lust-filled performance. And Sherlock would have every right not to speak to him again. God and he _knew_ how Sherlock was! He knew the man didn't lightly tolerate anyone getting near him. And to place him in an intimate situation, practically against his will was just unforgivable. Lestrade knew better, and thought his restraint was greater than that. God he was forty two years old and Sherlock was so...young. Beneath the stoic figure and the acerbic wit and eyes of steel, he was still so damn young. He couldn't forget the man's vulnerability. Lestrade, as long as he's known him has tried to protect him, even took him into his own home. And it all had led to this.

He remembered Sherlock taking him to bed, removing his shoes beforehand. Probably out of pity. Helping the old man to bed so he doesn't pass out and hit his head on the floor. He groaned, not thinking it possible for him to feel even more mortified. His head pounded mercilessly and he still needed to actually work today. There was nothing for it but to get up, shower and face the day. But could he face Sherlock? Sherlock, whose eyes were forever a mystery, a Pandora's Box that he dared to open and suddenly wished he hadn't. He was sure the fallout was soon to come.

His hands shook as he grabbed his coffee in the break room, officers milling about. "Is it true you and Freak went to the pub last night?" Sally's voice had a shrill quality to it this morning, he thought. That or his head was still fighting with him. He carefully turned to her, feigning ignorance.

"Wha' of it?"

She blinked but didn't say anything further, shaking her head as if asking merely out of curiosity and nothing more challenging. He carefully gripped his cup and walked slowly to his office, the various noises assaulting his senses unpleasantly. His mobile lay on his desk with no missed calls or texts. Periodically he would glance down at it with a nervous energy. Hours passed. He couldn't eat a thing and he went through two more cups of coffee which did nothing but make his hands jitter uncontrollably.

He realized he was staring at his computer screen without actually reading anything on it. The words all blurred together anyway, the grip of hangover not quite finished with him just yet.

He had a lot of time to think. Sherlock wasn't going to call him. Or text him. Or see him. Why should he? It was Lestrade's own fault for what happened. He's the one who needed to do something about it. Apologize, at the very least. But what to say? I’m sorry I couldn't keep my hands off you? I'm sorry I sullied your perfection with my drunken ass? I'm sorry I even invited you out? His head smacked the top of his desk. Repeatedly.

It was getting past five and he was shutting down his computer when his mobile pinged. Blood pumping in his ears he grabbed the phone, clumsily prying it open.

      _Going to County Down on a case. Sounds tedious but the groundskeeper keeps bees. Will return in two days. SH_

Lestrade stared at the letters, none of it making much sense to him. When the sentence still wouldn't spell out: ‘I don't ever want to speak to you again’, he exhaled with relief, breath going ragged.

_Didn't know you liked bees? Stay safe._

He snapped his phone shut and breathed properly for the first time that day.

True to his word, Sherlock came back two days later, swooping into the Yard like he owned the place, earning glares as he passed by. His hair was windswept and his scarf was wound tight around his long throat, his hands perpetually stuffed into his Belstaff. He wrenched open Lestrade's door without knocking, even though the Inspector was on the phone. He frowned in annoyance as Sherlock plopped loudly into the chair he usually occupied. Lestrade tried to glare but he couldn't concentrate on his important phone call _and_ on Sherlock looking all flushed and bright-eyed, lashes fanning on his cheekbones with every slow blink. Christ, he was losing it. He looked down, picking up a pen just so the jitters wouldn't be so obvious.

"Right, thanks. Keep me posted." He hung up and fixed Sherlock with a look.

"Can you please knock next time, I was on a private business call," he said with a stern look. Sherlock merely shrugged. "Nothing is private."

Lestrade groaned and rubbed at his eyes. "You are unbelievable, Sherlock." That earned him a self-righteous smirk. His heart unclenched a bit after realizing that Sherlock wasn't going to be talking about that night. Fine, he could play ignorant too.

"Have a nice time in Ireland?"

Sherlock cringed in mild disgust. "Waste of time, really. Such a dull case. Worse than the rubbish Mycroft keeps assailing me with. Not worth the airfare. I really don't know how people could live in such a place."

He was rambling. Sherlock never rambled. Lestrade stared blankly at the other man as if expecting more dialogue. When none came, he coughed a bit. "Well, not everyone prefers city living, Sherlock."

"And not everyone prefers the dull solitude of Brighton either," came the automatic response. When Sherlock noticed him staring he rolled his eyes. "Of course I remember what you told me about it being your favorite place to go. Honestly Lestrade, I'm not completely socially inept." He looked annoyed.

Lestrade declared, "I never said that. Just surprised is all that you remembered. Thought you might have deleted all the boring data associated with me," he said in jest, but really actually thrilled that Sherlock had kept that minor detail. Sherlock didn't meet his eye, scanning the room as if he hadn't already memorized it by heart from his first visit. Lestrade's collar felt a bit snug suddenly. The silence was palpable as they both searched for something to speak of.

"So I had this crazy idea," Lestrade blurted completely on a whim. Sherlock finally met his eyes, disinterest blooming.

"Yes?" he asked lazily even as his body tensed imperceptibly. Lestrade noticed and thought Sherlock might be impressed that he was paying attention. Then disregarded that notion as preposterous. He coughed.

"Next time you go brawling, or whatever it is you do, I thought I might tag along."

Sherlock's brows rose then fell in wary confusion. "What for?"

Lestrade didn't actually know why he brought it up. But ever since he found out about Sherlock's extracurricular activity, he'd always been a bit curious as to what goes on in the underground brawling circuit. Nevermind the fact that it was most likely highly illegal.

"Maybe I wanna give it a try myself," he said with a half smirk. Sherlock's expression hadn't changed, he was still regarding the older man with a calculating look, wariness brimming around the edges. Lestrade smirked wider, thinking Sherlock thought him incapable of hand to hand combat.

"You. Want to try fighting?" He enunciated each word like he couldn't believe he was even saying it. Lestrade shrugged.

"Sure, why not? So can I come to this secret club of yours?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's hardly a secret. And it's not a club, anyone who wants to fight is welcome. So tell me, Inspector. Who do you want to fight?"

Lestrade met his eyes, a challenge blazing from them. "You."

Sherlock wasn't as surprised as Lestrade thought he'd be. He looked at Lestrade, his eyes tinged with dark humour, one side of his mouth quirking, almost mocking. Lestrade waited, hands clasped, eyes glued to Sherlock's.

After a moment Sherlock broke eye contact and stood, chin down, contemplating further. "Very well. My flat. Tomorrow evening, six. And don't be late." He swept out of Lestrade's office, plunging his hands deep into his pockets, practically sauntering down the hall. Lestrade could never have imagined that when he woke up that morning, he would be agreeing to enter into a bare-knuckled fight at some undisclosed location, with Sherlock Holmes as his partner.

***

They walked side by side along the darkening streets of London, Sherlock in his workout garb and Lestrade in his own sweats and faded tee. He was a bit cold and his zip up wasn't really doing the trick. The place in question was actually not far from Sherlock's flat, about a fifteen minute walk.

"So you just show up and tell them you want to fight? Is that how it works?"

"More or less," Sherlock replied without looking at Lestrade.

"And I assume there's betting involved."

"Of course there is. But that isn't why I do it. I enjoy the sport. It's..therapeutic."

Lestrade cast a sideways look, a grin settling on his face. "Kinda like Fight Club?"

"What's fight club?"

Lestrade stared in disbelief, then thought better of responding. No doubt Sherlock hadn't heard of that particular film. Or book for that matter. He wasn't quite up to date with current events.

They rounded a corner at Newgate Street and walked another minute before Sherlock led them to a side street that was more of an alleyway than anything else. The streetlights were few in between and Lestrade would not have found this place on his own. It wasn't even really out of the way, it was just so nondescript he wouldn't even think anything of it in passing.

The door was black and not all that interesting, crisscrossed with various markings. There was no number on the door or anywhere abouts. Sherlock walked right through without knocking so Lestrade suspected it really was open to anyone. Down a narrow stairwell they went and then down a dank corridor. At the end was a wider door. There was a large man standing there, looking stern and imposing. He nodded as he saw Sherlock, though.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod of his own but said nothing, nor did he bother explaining Lestrade’s presence. He supposed guests were allowed entry if they knew someone who was a standing member of the ‘club’. They passed through the door and suddenly the room opened up into a large hall. In the center was a proper boxing ring, wooden benches surrounding the perimeter. Lestrade gaped, suddenly realizing how very real all this was.

People were milling about, mostly dodgy looking folk, old and young. There were big brutish blokes and tall skinny ones, tattooed and pierced, clean shaven and bushy bearded. It was too surreal, something straight out of an old movie. He leaned in towards Sherlock.

"So is this it, for people?"

Sherlock smirked. "No. It's still early, but it's Sunday too. Friday and Saturday evenings are much busier." They walked further into the large hall and found an empty section of wall to stand against. More people were coming in. Women too. Lestrade viewed the scene with a sense of wonder. He watched as people exchanged cash, eagerly making deals. The volume had turned up drastically too since they'd got there. Sherlock stood, arms crossed and watched with a detached air, every once in a while nodding in someone's direction.

After a few more minutes of just standing around, Sherlock whispered in his ear, "wait here", and walked away towards a man giving out directions, clearly in charge of things around here. He couldn't hear what was said, but he saw Sherlock point over to him and the other man looking a bit put off and unsure. Whatever Sherlock said convinced him eventually because he came back with a pleased expression on his face.

"What's going on?" Lestrade asked.

"Normally, we don't get to pick who we fight. It's actually a bit more structured than it appears. But they know me well around here. I was very convincing. Told them you were a copper and it was your first time." He stopped to smirk at Lestrade. "He was fine with the fight proceeding. We'll probably be up first. It's better that way. Less blood on the mat to deal with."

Lestrade blinked and inwardly groaned, not for the first time wondering what exactly possessed him to do this in the first place.

Word apparently spread very quickly because in no time at all bets were placed, people waving the money through the air, screaming indecipherable words out to anyone who would listen. It was a mad house. Sherlock stood in silence, aware of the scene before him. Lestrade's stomach was doing uncomfortable flips and he was just glad he ate nothing beforehand.

He wasn't afraid of fighting with Sherlock. In fact he was looking forward to it. He knew Sherlock could move and he knew he could fight. But knowing it and experiencing it are two different things. Lestrade wasn't a slouch either. You don't get to be Detective Inspector by sitting on your arse all day. When he was much younger he actually wrestled in school. Was pretty good at it too. He wondered if Sherlock knew that. Probably.

He felt a slight touch on his arm. "Come. It's time."

Lestrade followed Sherlock down to the ring, pulse pounding loudly in his ears. Adrenaline was kicking in as he crouched down to fit under the ropes. The crowd was closing in, yelling raucously. So many faces surrounded them, and Sherlock seemed non pulsed as he disrobed, tugging his tee off like he'd done it a hundred times. He tossed both his hoodie and t-shirt out of the ring somewhere and stood tall and lean, fair skin glistening with the slightest hint of perspiration. His dark hair was wild and his eyes glittered with an excitement Lestrade had only seen during very interesting murder cases.

After realizing he'd been staring far too long, he too removed his zip-up and tee, leaving him suddenly self-conscious and awkward. He dropped his clothing off the side as well and turned back to find Sherlock stretching. Heart beating a hair faster than necessary, Lestrade casually gazed away and began stretching himself. Arms, legs, torso. Suddenly someone jumped into the ring with them. It was the important man Sherlock spoke with earlier. The man in charge. He began loudly explaining the rules, asking them if they understood. Lestrade nodded dumbly, not remembering a word he'd said.

Blood was pumping in his ears, through his veins, searing him. He was anxious to get started. Sherlock was looking at him intently, bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, staying loose. His cheeks were flushed as he approached, reaching his arms out. Lestrade followed, and as they clacked their knuckles together, Sherlock leaned forward, whispering in his ear, "Don't hold back." He quickly stepped back with a challenging gleam, still bopping up and down like an excited puppy. Lestrade smirked back, eyes glittering darkly. If that's the way Sherlock wanted to play....

He only somewhat heard the sound of the bell before the crowd went wild and Sherlock was stalking up to him. After that, things were mostly a giant blur of movement and pain.

Sherlock dodged an uppercut, crouching down and hitting Lestrade right in his lower left side. Lestrade grunted but shook it off, advancing once more. He didn't know how long they'd been at it, but he was starting to get tired and he hadn't got a good hit on Sherlock yet. Sherlock side-stepped his jab with a smirk and ended up kicking Lestrade in the shin. Pain coursed up his leg. Swearing he crouched low and ended up catching Sherlock off guard when he suddenly dove right at him, grappling him to the mat. Then they were a tangle of legs and arms, fighting for dominance.

So far, neither of them managed to get a face hit in, though Lestrade suspected Sherlock was avoiding his on purpose, simply for that fact that if Lestrade showed up at work tomorrow, black and blue, questions would be raised. Lestrade grabbed an elbow, pulling it taut against him. Sherlock let out a hiss of pain before his long leg ended up kneeing Lestrade dangerously close to his groin. He assumed the fight would end with either a pin or knockout and was about to revel in his position, when the bell suddenly rang.

Cursing, he regretfully released his hold on Sherlock, huffing and puffing. He felt tender all over and had the slightest bit of satisfaction as he watched Sherlock walk back to his corner, massaging his now aching arm. He leaned back against the ropes for a breather, watching Sherlock through lidded eyes. For a skinny bloke, Sherlock sure could fight. He had the speed and agility and certainly some experience. But he wasn't just skin and bones. He had a fine layer of taut muscle over that lanky skeleton of his, wiry veins up and down his arms and Lestrade could only imagine what his legs looked like beneath his loose jogging bottoms. Probably sculpted and lean, like the rest of him. The bell rang and he jumped, unaware of his daydreaming.

Sherlock advanced, that challenging look plastered on his face. Lestrade wanted nothing more than to smack it off him. His knuckles stung but he clenched his fists and went after him. Sherlock didn't utilize many kicks, figuring it wouldn't be fair since Lestrade wasn't able to and certainly didn't know how. It was true, he was no martial artist. But if he could get Sherlock on the mat again, he could show him what he _did_ know. Sherlock had other plans. He was like a beast that couldn't be toppled, his energy never failing.

Lestrade punched, and Sherlock dodged, sidestepping mostly everything Lestrade gave out. He was getting frustrated. Sherlock was toying with him now, realizing that Lestrade was getting tired and lagging.

Suddenly, out of the blue Sherlock swiped his leg forward and knocked Lestrade off balance. He went down on his arse, hitting the mat hard. Sherlock was on top of him now, trying to twist his long limbs around Lestrade's. Furious he was so caught off guard, he did the only thing that sprang to mind: he punched Sherlock in his jaw. As the younger man staggered from the sudden blow, Lestrade took the opportunity to grab around his torso, which was slick with sweat, and tried to roll him over on his back. But Sherlock had realized what he meant to do and with a feral look in his eyes and with a strength Lestrade couldn't fathom he possessed he somehow managed to get Lestrade pinned on his stomach.

Both his arms were suddenly pulled back, painfully awkward, and his legs refused to cooperate as Sherlock was practically sitting on them and had his ankles clenched tight around Lestrade's. It fucking hurt and the louder he grunted, the harder Sherlock pulled and he felt like his shoulders would pop out of their sockets.

"Yield!" Sherlock screamed in his ear as the crowd went rabid. It was beyond humiliating as he had little choice left. The pressure on his arms increased and he had to bite his tongue from screaming.

"Alright! Stop, I yield, damn it!”

Immediately the pressure eased as Sherlock jumped off him. Lestrade couldn't move for a moment, his arms protesting the slightest movement. Suddenly he felt arms from behind, wrapping around his upper torso. He was being lifted up, since his own appendages couldn't currently support him. Finally on his wobbly feet he turned to glare at Sherlock but his face froze as he gazed at the exuberance on Sherlock's face. It was lit up with pure elation, a wide grin spreading on his face as he clasped Lestrade on his shoulder, leading him towards the edge of the ring.

His heart pounding erratically which had nothing to do with the fight, he allowed Sherlock to lead him away, crouching under the ropes as Sherlock lifted them and taking a seat on an unoccupied bench near the ring. His ears were still ringing from all the blood pumping and the sheer volume of the place. Around him people were smacking his back, almost as if he had won. People kept coming, some even spoke to him.

"Incredible fight! Can't believe how long it lasted!"

"You were lucky, mate. Should see the other blokes he fights. Practically tears them apart!"

"You coming back, yeah?"

On it on it went until Sherlock returned. He wasn't even aware he had gone off somewhere until he was back, a wad of cash in his hands. He also brought back Lestrade's clothing and was already donning his own, stuffing the money in his pockets.

"Come on, I doubt you want to stay for the rest of the fights."

Lestrade huffed a laugh. He grabbed his tee and put it on over his sweaty body, cringing at the prickles of pain coursing up and down his arms. He’d be sore for days. After getting his hoodie zipped up, he stood, his whole body protesting. Sherlock had him by the shoulder as he led them out, past the noise of the crowd, past the large man at the door, until they were suddenly breathing the cool London air. If felt like heaven. They stood still for a moment.

He expected some gloating but when nothing was forthcoming he just said, "Come on," and they stepped out to the kerb, their footsteps echoing in the dark.

Pain coursed through his limbs, leaving him achy and lethargic with each step he took. He cast a sideways glance at his companion, walking silently beside him.

"Well that was something."

Sherlock shot him a sidelong smirk, eyes still ahead. "You should see it on a real busy evening." A pause. "You're quicker than you appear, for an old man," he grinned.

Lestrade gave him an half-hearted glare. "You little shit."

Sherlock's grin grew wider. He inclined his head in acceptance and they continued in their steady pace. The cold air felt nice against his raw skin though he'd be feeling every bit of it tomorrow morning. They were soon coming upon Sherlock's building, people passing by them as they walked.

When they came to the stoop Sherlock said, "I suppose you want a shower before you head home."

Lestrade hadn't actually been expecting an invite but now that it was offered, he wasn't going to refuse it. A hot shower sounded positively blissful.

"Yea, thanks. Some tea would be nice too." Sherlock nodded in assent and inclined his head at the doorway. The climb up to Sherlock's flat was torturous, his legs protesting with every tread. He was practically out of breath by the time they reached the landing. Sherlock retrieved from his trouser pocket a single key and unlocked the door.

He gestured for Lestrade to come in and immediately proceeded to remove his zip up and his tee, dropping them onto the floor without another glance. Then he walked over to the sink and started on the tea. Lestrade slowly unzipped his own hoodie, placing it more carefully over one of the dining chairs before plopping down hard onto the seat. He tried not staring at the large expanse of naked flesh as Sherlock made the task of tea-making an erotic affair.

His head ached miserably, a fact he was only starting to notice, so consumed with the rest of his aches. He suddenly noticed Sherlock by his side, his pale smooth torso leaning forward, setting a steaming tea cup down in front of him. Then he sat down diagonally across from Lestrade at the small table and settled his elbows on top. He drooped his head forward, almost as if stretching his neck, then swiftly twisted his head to the right, then the left, cracking it with a sickening pop. Lestrade cringed at the sound, so loud it was in the stillness of the flat.

He took a sip of the scalding tea, burning his tongue instantly. Placing the cup back down he glanced over at the pale arms resting on the table; the smooth, white skin, blue veins stretching underneath the fine dermis. He saw the faded marks, pale and nearly invisible, almost indiscernible to the casual observer. But Lestrade would always know what they meant, would always see them, no matter how faded they got. Cautiously, he reached forward and grazed a fingertip to the juncture where elbow met wrist, lightly tracing one. Sherlock's head jerked up at the touch, arms going stiff.

Lestrade didn't meet his eyes, just kept gently gently circling the marks, wishing his mind wouldn't conjure the horrible images he kept seeing.

"Stop that." Sherlock's voice was low and dark, and wasn't referring to the touching.

Lestrade frowned, blinking away the images. "Sorry. I-" His voice caught and he removed his hand, placing it back onto his warm mug. "I keep seeing..."

"Don't," came the stern reply, more a plea than anything. Lestrade slowly glanced over, at the pale hands inches from his own. His gaze went higher as his heart rate sped up, noticing goosepimples rising all over the naked skin. His mind refused to obey as he caught sight of Sherlock's lean torso, slightly hunched over, a very light dusting of hair on his chest, nipples pinched from the cold; erect. His head was pounding as his eyes roamed higher still, over the long, elegant neck, carotid artery pulsing underneath the fair skin. If not for that Sherlock was like a statue, not budging an inch under the obvious scrutiny. Lestrade felt emboldened.

Surely Sherlock was not completely unaware of Lestrade's...inclinations. He had kissed him for Christ's sake. And that was at the frontmost of his mind suddenly, playing on repeat- and he wasn't even lucid at the time. Now, _now_ he was aware of everything. The closeness to Sherlock, his body heat radiating off him, their knees practically touching under the table, the stillness of the room, the pounding in his chest that escalated as his eyes finally met Sherlock's.

It hurt. How could he not have seen it before? Was he so blinded by Sherlock's past faults and mistakes that he never realized precisely what he _did_ see in Sherlock? The extraordinary genius, yes. Everyone saw that. But only he was privy to _this_. These quiet moments of just them. Sherlock's arresting eyes boring into his. A million different emotions warring with each other, his armour slowly chipping at the seams. Sherlock was never this casual. Not with anyone. Not even his own brother. How many people had he let into his life so intimately? He could probably guess and be right.

And now they sit, Sherlock's body taut like the strings on his precious violin. Waiting. One wrong move could ruin everything. Was it worth it? How did he let Sherlock in so deeply? How did he become so consumed? Even before the kiss. He knew, deep, deep down, he must have known. The kiss was just inevitable. It merely reminded him of what could be. Would it still have happened if he wasn't drunk out of his mind? Who knows. But just the flash of remembrance, the warmth of his mouth...and Lestrade ached with need. He wasn't thinking anymore.

He braced his arm on the table and leaned over, swallowing hard. "Sherlock," he whispered, almost silently, and touched his lips to the younger man’s. It was firm, yet chaste. It was intoxicating. The endorphins from the fight were taking over again and he brought his other arm up and cupped the side of Sherlock's face, his tongue begging for entrance. A cold hand clenched onto his wrist, unyielding. He immediately froze and backed off a bit, staring into Sherlock's dark eyes.

"You don't want this," Sherlock said matter of factly. Lestrade could have laughed.

"Yes, I do." His breath mingled with Sherlock's as the younger man flicked out his tongue, wetting his lips in contemplation.

"What if I don't want this?"

Lestrade went very still, staring into Sherlock's eyes with a burning intensity. "Then I stop right now. But you could have stopped me before, too," he countered.

Sherlock blinked, eyes downcast in thought. "I don't _do_ this." But it sounded weak even to him as he frowned at his own choice of words. He looked back at Lestrade. "You'll despise me tomorrow. You'll despise yourself more."

Lestrade curled his lip. "I think you've given me plenty of reasons to despise you, Sherlock. And yet..." He hovered over Sherlock's face, his free hand reaching forward again, this time lightly tracing the forming bruise on his jaw. Sherlock's breathing remained even, though his eyes told another story. Lestrade dared another glimpse before lowering his face once more to get as close as he could to Sherlock.

The iron grip remained on his wrist as he pressed his lips again to Sherlock's, his free hand slowly shifting to his ears, to his silky hair, still damp with sweat. The smell was intoxicating. Everything about Sherlock was. His breath tasted mildly of cigarettes and cloves and he found himself nuzzling along the curve of his jaw, his lips mapping their way to his neck, pulsating with life. He didn't even realize his other arm was free then as he brought it up, planting it towards the back of Sherlock's neck, feeling the tickle of dark strands.

Suddenly he felt and heard the chair scrape back harshly and Sherlock had his fist clenched onto the front of Lestrade's tee, pushing him forward out of his awkward position. He found himself in between Sherlock's spread legs, the sensation going straight to his cock like a bolt of lightening.

He leaned forward, plundering Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock held on to his clothing with one hand while the other raked up the back of his neck, bracing at the nape, curving long fingers through his short hair. He moaned into the open mouth, leaning forward and crushing his thigh in between Sherlock's legs, eliciting the barest of gasps. His blood boiled at the sound and it suddenly felt like an inferno in the kitchen. He withdrew from Sherlock's mouth, kissing his way to his flushed ear.

"Get up," he groaned as his cock strained against the confines of his pants. He leaned away from the inviting body and reached forward, grabbing Sherlock's hand. He hoisted him up and maneuvered him around the table, away from the kitchen and towards the leather easy chair. There he sunk into it first and pulled Sherlock down on top of him, straddle-style. He sighed at the contact; could feel Sherlock's hard prick through the cloth against his own. His arms were everywhere, on Sherlock's slick back, running up his arms, grabbing onto his arse hard, digging him further into his lap. He was a man gone insane, too long without physical contact and too long without a partner he actually wanted to fuck and consume.

Sherlock's arms rested on the back of the chair, on either side of Lestrade's head. He leaned forward, his mop of hair damp with sweat, drooping over his forehead, obscuring the intensity of his eyes as he arched his back into Lestrade's lap, the grip tightening, knuckles bone white.

Lestrade suckled on his collarbone, licking a path to the juncture where neck meets shoulder blade, grinding up into Sherlock like a dog in heat. He was simply too far gone for proper thought or reasoning. He wanted Sherlock and that's all he could focus on. Sherlock placed one hand on Lestrade's chest and bent his neck, his head falling back, eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. Lestrade had never seen anything so erotic in his life.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, pulling him close. "Oh my god..." His lips captured Sherlock's, sucking, biting. Sherlock was a fine kisser, though hesitant at first. Lestrade wondered when the last time he was with another person. Truth be told, it was a while for him too. And now he was making up for that. His tongue felt seared as he plundered Sherlock's mouth, grappling for dominance. The heat was shocking, turning him to mush, Every time Sherlock's tongue flicked over his own, he felt it deep down in his groin. He was so damn hard he felt he would die if he didn't get relief soon.

Mouth still on Sherlock's, he reached down with one hand, cupping the erection pressing eagerly against him. The man above him moaned into his mouth, a heat filled sound that throbbed through every nerve ending Lestrade possessed. Eager now, he reached into the waistband of Sherlock's jogging trousers and then inside his boxer briefs and _grabbed._ Sherlock shuddered above him, mouth gasping with overwhelmed shock.

Lestrade groped the silky cock, lead hot and slick and tugged slowly, eliciting another exquisite sound from Sherlock. His thumb circled the head and felt the sticky warmth of the pre-come, so slippery and hot against him.

"Greg..." came the pleading moan, Sherlock's grip on his arm painful and desperate. Lestrade's breath caught as his name passed Sherlock's lips, body shuddering above him. If he had any doubts about any of this they were quickly eviscerated by the raw intensity in Sherlock's voice.

He grabbed Sherlock's jaw, fingers pressing roughly into his cheeks. Wild, dark eyes leered back at him, challenging. Lestrade lunged forward, mouth on mouth, teeth clashing, tongues swirling. He extracted his hand from Sherlock's pants, eliciting a disappointed moan, and used whatever strength he had remaining to lift them both off the chair. Sherlock let out a tiny squeak of surprise, but held on as Lestrade carefully lowered him back to the floor, feet touching.

"Bed. Now please."

Sherlock's mouth quirked in a lazy half smile and inclined his head towards the bedroom, almost acquiescing to what would potentially happen. Lestrade removed his clothing on his way to the bedroom, leaving him standing by the bed in just his boxers. Sherlock took the hint and removed the rest of his clothing, leaving him flushed and naked from head to toe, his erection proudly protruding. Lestrade nearly forgot to breathe as he carefully nudged Sherlock to the edge of the bed, hand splayed on his chest for pressure. Sherlock sat, legs over the edge, and leaned back on his elbows in a _fuck me_ pose, if Lestrade had ever seen one.

He dropped to his knees in between Sherlock's long legs, fingers running up and down, past muscle and downy hairs. He rested his forehead on his thighs, giving himself a moment to get his beating heart under control. He felt the slightest pressure on his head, then fingers running through, grazing his scalp deliciously. He needed no further encouragement.

He nuzzled the soft skin, breathing in the scent that was Sherlock. Sweat mixed with expensive body wash mixed with arousal. He could get used to it. Sherlock's cock jutted outward, completely hard and leaking. Not that he'd had numerous experiences with penises, but as far as this one went, he had absolutely nothing to complain about. He had often wondered. He would’ve sighed if he wasn't salivating. He took a swipe at the tip and found the flavour appealing. Sherlock's mouth drooped open, as he watched with glazed, hooded eyes. Lestrade swallowed the tip whole and Sherlock's head lolled back, his spine arching into the sensation.

Emboldened, he wrapped one of his hands around the shaft and suckled on the tip, his other hand anchoring himself on Sherlock's thigh. The body underneath him shuddered and jerked, arms failing him. Sherlock fell back, one arm folded over his head, fingers twisting through his hair, fighting to retain his control. He was failing, badly. Lestrade continued his assault, alternating between deep throating and lapping at the shaft to plain fisting when his mouth got tired.

Sherlock bucked into his mouth, eager, his bullocks tightening. Lestrade grabbed the quivering thighs tightly, and sucked him until he heard the choked, stuttered sound, felt hands digging into his scalp. He lapped at the pearly liquid that escaped past his lips, swallowing down the rest. He licked the shaft clean as Sherlock lay boneless on the bed, savoring every drop as if it were the last he'd ever taste.

Afterwards he crawled up on the bed, straddling Sherlock's still body. The younger man looked up at him, pupils blown wide, mouth working to control his breathing. Lestrade's hard cock ached as it pressed against Sherlock's stomach, leaving a shiny trail of pre-come from the motion.

"Sherlock-" but he didn't get much further because he was startled by a hard grasp on his cock, leaving him breathless and seeing stars. Sherlock never took his eyes off him as he stroked him from bullocks to tip, fingers firm and purposeful. It was an awkward angle but Lestrade didn't care as he moved his arm down and laid his hand over Sherlock's, fisting simultaneously. It was too much. It was not enough. His eyes kept hold of Sherlock's as he slowly rocked into their hands, his other arm bracing the bed for support. Sherlock's other hand was kneading his spine, sending tingles throughout his body.

Just when he felt he couldn't handle the overload any longer he was suddenly coming, his hand wavering to support himself from collapse, as Sherlock's fingers milked every drop from his pulsating member. His chest heaved with emotion and exhaustion and he lay flush with Sherlock’s chest, gasping for breath. He felt Sherlock move his arm and watched as he licked clean his fingers, his tongue flickering out past his lips with an obscene sound. His eyes were curious and contemplative as he finished, testing out his pallet. Lestrade was too drained to laugh at his expression.

He lazily kissed his jaw, his cheeks, tasting himself on his lips. He was fighting sleep now but he really wanted to savour every second he had with Sherlock. He rolled off and over Sherlock, laying flat on the cool bedsheets, his chest rising with exertion.

"Fucking hell, Sherlock," he breathed, eyes closing. He heard the soft sound, might have been a sigh, might have been a giggle. He was out like a light a moment later.

He awoke to cold. He must have kicked the covers off sometime in the night and now lay upon the sheets, nude and freezing. His muscles protested when he tried to shift in bed and he remembered the fight. He remembered the pain, every part of his body aching, from toes to fingertips. He would no doubt be walking around sore for the next few days.

It was early still, judging by the faint morning light, and he was in bed alone. He couldn't say he was surprised. He really didn't figure Sherlock for a cuddler. His spine tingled as he suddenly recalled what had transpired in the very bed he lay in. His mind didn't need remembering. That particular memory was engrained for all time. His bleary eyes shut tight, trying to return to the moment, the blissful abandon. Even his most vivid fantasy couldn't compare.

He took a deep breath and sat up. The other side of the bed was cool, meaning Sherlock had been up a while. His stomach was a bit tacky but dry, meaning Sherlock had thankfully wiped him clean after he passed out. He put his feet down, recoiling at the freezing touch of the floor. He wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock had forgotten to turn on the heat last night. The flat was practically an igloo.

He knew he needed to get home, seeing as he had nothing to wear for clean work attire. Still, he was a mess. He got up and went out to the living area. It was dead quiet. Frowning, he realized Sherlock wasn't even home, his coat missing from its peg. He went to the bathroom, and turned on the shower tap as hot as it would go. He showered quickly using the body wash he found. It felt odd to be using Sherlock's personal hygiene things. Too intimate. Finishing up, he grabbed a towel, not caring that it wasn't freshly laundered. The hot water had felt nice on his aching body, though he'd kill for a cup of tea.

He gathered up his clothing from where he dropped them last night and zipped up his hoodie. It would be cold, but he had nothing else. Sherlock hadn't come home and he couldn't really wait around for him. Making sure his keys were still in his pocket he left the flat and grabbed a taxi home. When he got to work, he still hadn't heard from Sherlock. A twinge of worry nagged at him. Was Sherlock avoiding him? The man's mercurial tendencies were legend but even he couldn't completely erase what happened last night, not unless he regretted it.

Lestrade had trouble concentrating the remainder of the workday. He varied between arousal as his mind conjured up inappropriate images, or straight up worry at the lack of communication from Sherlock. Surely there was protocol. He just had to remember it. He had propositioned Sherlock, so it was only right that he get in touch with him. He took out his mobile.

      _Wanna grab some dinner or take away?_

_Busy. SH_

He frowned down at the word, its curtness leaving his stomach in knots. Fine. He knew what Sherlock was like. He'd always known. One night together wasn't going to change him, not that Lestrade wanted that. Really not at all surprised at the turn of events, he snapped his phone shut and went home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did some research and apparently there is still some underground boxing going on in England. Hopefully it isn't too far-fetched but I had this plot-line and it wouldn't leave my head...


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

Time changes all things. This was a fact of life, of nature. Time changes people, for better or worse, but usually, the changes are miniscule from year to year, until a decade has passed and you realize you don't even know yourself anymore. Lestrade thought about this often. Almost daily now. Now that things had changed.

He knew sleeping with Sherlock could potentially do damaging things. He knew it, he _knew_ what a realistic possibility it actually was, and still he succumbed to his baser instincts, and opened up Pandora's Box. Now he was deeply regretting it. So much so that it was eating away at him from morning to night.

Aside from the fact that it was quite possibly the best sex he could remember-and they hadn't even gone all the way- he would take it all back if it would mean things would return to the way they were. To before. To when Sherlock talked to him and actually looked him in the eye. To when they joked and bantered, even when Sherlock was beyond inappropriate. Not to the Sherlock who gave him the cold shoulder, or responded as to a stranger, brisk, clinical, frigid. A month later and nothing felt right.

He wasn't completely ignorant of the situation. Clearly Sherlock regretted what had happened between them. For numerous reasons Lestrade could guess, Sherlock was choosing to ignore Lestrade rather than deal with their issue. He tried many times to bring it up but that always ended up awkwardly, and for some reason Lestrade found Sherlock absent often from his flat. He told himself it meant nothing, but he couldn't stop the worry from festering. He loathed to think what Sherlock was getting into in his state of mind.

He kept telling himself he wasn't responsible for his well-being, but he was just in too deep into this Sherlock mess and he couldn't just look the other way. On top of everything, there hadn't been a case worthy of Sherlock's interest in the past month, save for a couple of murder mysteries that Sherlock solved in less than forty eight hours, hounding on Lestrade's team for their inept incompetency. Sally was upset that Lestrade didn't intervene, but he wasn't about to piss Sherlock off any more than he already was. He told Sally it wasn't anything no one's heard before, leaving her silently fuming.

One cool spring morning, barely a month after their 'falling out’, he got a surprise visitor after hours at the Met, in the form of Mycroft Holmes. He tried to play it cool when he saw him approaching with his large umbrella, but he ended up choking on his coffee and wiping spittle from his keyboard. He dreaded this visit. He hadn't seen the older Holmes brother in quite a while, but somehow he knew his luck had run out.

"Ah, Inspector, I'm so glad to find you unoccupied." He took a seat, uninvited, across from Lestrade, setting his umbrella on Lestrade's desk. Lestrade glared at the intrusion.

"Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?" he said, not quite sarcastically. Mycroft's brow rose a half inch. He sat upright, hands clasped together in his lap, staring at Lestrade like a professor scolding an unruly pupil. Lestrade remembered those days well. He tried not to squirm.

"I do believe you already know, Inspector."

Lestrade stared blankly, not giving an inch. "Sorry. Don't really have time for riddles today, Mycroft. I'd like to get home sooner rather than later, so let's save all these false banalities for another day and just tell me what dragged you in here today."

Mycroft stared back for a moment before inclining his head slightly in deferment. "Sherlock"- and Lestrade mentally patted himself on the back for not reacting whatsoever- "He's been acting...off."

Lestrade half-snickered, an incredulous expression taking over. "You don't say." Mycroft did not seem amused 

"More so than usual, Inspector. And I think you know why," he stated with surety.

Lestrade shrugged. "Look, I'm not his keeper or minder. Sure I see him often enough, but I can't exactly be concerned with every oddity that Sherlock exhibits. I'd go insane."

Mycroft stared stonily at Lestrade, not even blinking. Finally he said, "You're good, Inspector. Very good I grant you. But I am. Better. I do this for a living and I get paid a lot more than you do. So I beg _you_ not to waste my time," he finished coolly.

Lestrade swallowed loudly. There really was no point in lying to the man, but he also didn't appreciate the veiled threats and bullying. Some of his agitation must have shown on his face because Mycroft softened his expression slightly, taking an even breath.

"I don't know what Sherlock's problem is," Lestrade interjected. "He's been like this for a month. Yes it involves me. No I don't think Sherlock's on drugs at the moment. No I don't think he's a danger to others and anything else is really none of your business," he finished, not realizing he had subconsciously leaned forward over his desk in a defensive stance. He blinked and returned to sitting properly in his chair.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade, a bored expression growing. His face looked a bit fuller and he silently wondered if he gained some more weight. Then realized it was something Sherlock would say and inwardly cringed. Now Mycroft was glowering at him. Damn it. Fucking mind readers.

"Anyway, if that's all, I really have to get going." He stood, a clear indication that the conversation was done with, as far as he was concerned. After a beat, Mycroft followed suit, grabbings his umbrella from the desk. He stood close to Lestrade, his chin jutting out.

"My brother doesn't _do_ relationships, Inspector. He doesn't have the mental capacity to deal with mundane things like that when he's already burdened with a million other more important thoughts and ideas. He cannot handle that. I am telling you this not as a warning, but rather to explain that Sherlock is not like you...and never will be. It would be the equivalent of emotional overload. And he is incapable of handling something so extreme." He wasn't looking at Lestrade anymore, but down at his feet, his umbrella prodding the carpeting.

Lestrade crossed his arms, not even knowing what to say. To refute the claim would be to admit what he did with Sherlock, but he couldn’t actually deny the tiny niggling in his mind that said it was most likely true. He didn't like to think that. It made Sherlock seem less human. How can someone with a brilliance like Sherlock's not be capable of love? Or feeling? It didn't make sense to Lestrade, but then again, he wasn't burdened by a genius status.

Apparently Mycroft didn't look for a verbal response as he inclined his head and walked out the door, leaving Lestrade standing awkwardly, his mind in turmoil. Making up his decision, he took out his mobile.

      _I need to talk to you_

_Boring. SH_

Lestrade gritted his teeth, fingers jabbing at the keys.

      _I'm serious. now._

_Can't. Busy. SH_

Lestrade sighed in annoyance.

      _Just had a visit from your brother_

No response. He waited, and waited. As soon as he realized he had exhausted all his plays he snapped his phone shut. And then he heard it.

      _Your flat. SH_

He released his pent-up breath, head feeling dizzy. His heart was crashing around in his chest, not looking forward to this meeting at all. He grabbed his jacket and left work with a sense of impending doom.

When he got to his flat, his door was already unlocked. Cursing, he stormed in, spotting Sherlock lounging on the sofa in his great big coat, reading a random book he must have found on his coffee table.

"Fuck, Sherlock, you can't just break into my flat." He dropped his keys on the kitchen table and took off his jacket. Sherlock hadn't budged from his spot.

"Why not, it's obscenely simple." He snapped close the book, dropping it on the table.

Lestrade went to his kitchen, and started making tea, if only to keep his hands busy, or from strangling Sherlock. He made two cups, milk in his, sugar for Sherlock. He brought the cups over, setting them on the coffee table. Then he took a seat in his armchair, since Sherlock was occupying the entire sofa. Plus, the distance might help make things less awkward. He received no thanks for the tea, not that that was a surprise. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. His palms felt clammy so he tried wiping them on his trousers. Sherlock was watching him.

After a dramatic sigh, Sherlock sat up, a sullen, glazed expression settling on his face. "So talk." He shrugged in question. "You asked to see me, so talk."

Lestrade had many things he wanted to say to him, but there was just too much to organize. His thoughts were scattered. He really didn't want to start an argument but things couldn't continue as they were. He took a deep breath.

"Like I said, I had a visit from your brother. He seemed...concerned about the way you've been acting lately." Sherlock's expression hadn't changed, except for the slightest wrinkle at Mycroft’s mention. "He came to me for a reason, and you know why. I just- I'd like to know what's going on. I'm not gonna pretend I don't know what this is about, but I'm a tad perplexed, Sherlock. I thought- I assumed you'd..." God this wasn't working well at all. Everything he wanted to say just sounded so cliché and Sherlock probably wouldn't appreciate any of it anyway.

"Look. I had a great time. If you didn't, I get it. If you never want to talk about it again, I get it. If you feel in any way that I will make things awkward or whatever...I get it. And it's not gonna happen. I've too many things on my plate to stress over this. If you only want to work cases from now on and eliminate me from your personal life"- and this was hard to say- "I get it and I'll respect that decision. But this...limbo isn't working well for me. You like things to the point, well so do I. I'm not holding anything against you, nor do I wish for anything you can't or don't wish to give me. I like having you around, as a friend. I'd like for that friendship to continue, no matter how much you snark at that word. You are my friend, Sherlock and after everything, I really prefer not to lose that friendship. But I will leave that decision with you. Now. I am done with my little speech. Please tell your brother not to stalk me at work anymore..." The last part was a bit of a joke, hoping to lighten the mood. Part of it was a bit creepy though, and Sherlock knew that already.

Sherlock had been looking at a spot past Lestrade's head the whole time, eyes not really giving anything away. Finally he jerked his head down, settling on his cup of tea. Sighing, he picked it up and took a sip. He placed the cup back down gently before leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped in prayer.

"What did my brother say to you?"

Lestrade looked away briefly, recalling the awkward conversation. To lie would be hurtful to Sherlock. He sighed, picking up his own tea. "He said you are not mentally capable of handling a relationship." He inwardly cringed at his own words. Sherlock didn't seem overly upset. He stared at Lestrade, unblinking.

"He's right, of course."

Lestrade frowned, rapidly blinking. "What do you mean?" He placed his cup down, then raised his arms in a placating gesture. "And you don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to. I didn't ask any questions of Mycroft and my plan in speaking with you doesn't involve you telling me anything you don't wish to.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "There's too much going on up here," he pointed at his temple. "I can barely sleep most nights because I can't get any relief from the constant buzzing. Hence, the morphine. Since you find that repugnant, I have to make do. The work helps, it makes me focus on particulars. When I have nothing on, my mind wanders. It's not something I can help," he practically snarled, angry with himself. "To bring anything else into the equation is usually a futile endeavor. There's a reason I don't get involved in sexual relationships, Lestrade. They do nothing for my mind, nothing good anyway." He must have seen the confused hurt on Lestrade's face because he suddenly softened his stance.

"When I'm in that moment, it feels...overwhelming."

Lestrade shook his head, his voice low. "Why didn't you stop it?"

A shrug. "Curiosity. Most of my sexual experiences took place while I was coked up. It was the only way I could deal with everything. I suppose...You're not like the rest. You would have been fine if I rejected you."

Lestrade found himself nodding, his throat tight. "You know me, Sherlock. You know I'd never-"

"I know. And that's why I did." He leaned back against the cushions, eyes faraway. "I don't like when things get messy. It's tedious and it just reminds me all over why I don't _do_ casual sex. I apologize if I can't explain it any other way but-"

"No, stop. Please, you don't have to keep going. I told you, I get it. It's totally fine. I swear. Just...maybe no more cold shoulder?"

Sherlock looked over at Lestrade, a pensive look crossing his face before he jerked his head in a nod, just once.

"Thank you." He picked up his tea, taking a large sip. Sherlock copied him a moment later and they drank in silence, for once not completely uncomfortable.

"I'll speak with Mycroft", Sherlock said after a while. "Stop his meddling once and for all."

Lestrade quirked his lip. "I can handle Mycroft. He's not as intimidating as he thinks he is."

Sherlock looked almost amused. "Careful what you say. He has ears everywhere."

Lestrade looked around, mildly uncomfortable. He jerked his head back to Sherlock when he heard the huff of silent laughter. "Don't do that, you bastard." Sherlock's eyes gleamed with bemusement as he took one last sip of his now cold tea, resting the cup on the table.

"I have to go. I need to look over my notes for a case I might work on."

Lestrade nodded, standing up to let Sherlock out. "Take care of yourself, Sherlock." A smirk. "Always, Inspector."

***

Over the course of the next few months, Lestrade did his best not to think of Sherlock in any sexual context. It wasn't too hard actually. Work kept him busy. There were two gruesome murders that needed solving and Sherlock was all about that. He swept onto the scenes with his usual vigor and enthusiasm and regaled the assembly with his deductions.

Lestrade was thankful that the awkwardness had passed. He wasn't going to pretend nothing happened, but he was certainly capable of turning his thoughts to more important matters as the weeks progressed. Sherlock never uttered a word about that night. Like it never even existed. Lestrade was too relieved to feel hurt. Sherlock was speaking to him again, and that mattered more.

In between cases for the Yard, Sherlock had his own to attend to. He was off traveling, always returning slightly perturbed, as if it wasn't worth the effort to begin with. He was most comfortable in London. The city suited him- the chaos and constant commotion. He lived for it. Craved it. Without it, he felt useless which lead to boredom. Boredom led to other things that Lestrade didn't want to think about.

"It's a bloody boiler in here, Sherlock. For God's sake turn the AC on!" He was at Sherlock's flat, trying to make tea in a space the equivalent of a sauna. Sherlock's violin didn't pause in the wake of his outburst, the moody, depressing sound resonating through the flat.

"Don't have them!" Sherlock finally called out.

Lestrade took a deep breath as he set two mugs onto the cluttered table. His shirt was soaked through, even though the sun had long set. He grumbled as he sat down in the chair.

"Why the fuck not? How do you stand the heat?"

Sherlock finally set his violin down, looking slightly annoyed at the line of questioning. He sat opposite Lestrade, glowering. "Because the incessant humming interferes with my thinking. Plus, it never gets so hot here in London that I would require the use of an AC on a regular basis."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well I hope you don't mind drops of sweat in your tea then."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, rifling through some of the papers on the table. "Maybe I will have one in my new flat."

Lestrade paused mid-sip. "What new flat?"

Sherlock looked annoyed. "Honestly, Lestrade. What sort of detective are you that you can't even recall earlier conversations?" he asked rhetorically. "I told you I was offered one months back. From one of my clients. She's moved back to London and called me up the other week, asking if I was still interested. I mentioned I might like to take a look."

Lestrade did vaguely recall that conversation. The lady from Florida with a husband on Death Row. "Ah, yea. Sure, I remember. That's great news. Anything's gotta be better than this place."

Sherlock barely indicated he'd heard, so engrossed with his papers. Lestrade pursed his lips. "Got any scones or biscuits?"

Sherlock didn't lift his head. "No, need to run to the shops. But you should probably avoid those anyway." Then he did suddenly and quickly glance up, his eyes raking over Lestrade's body in a split second. "You've put on three pounds since the winter. Don't want to make it four do we?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "I have not!" he responded, a bit too loudly. Sherlock blinked up at him.

"Surely not three. Maybe one. But that's nothing!"

"Mmm, no, definitely three." Another glance. "Maybe four."

"Right, that's enough out of you." He quickly finished his tea, agitated. So what if Sherlock was right? Everyone puts on weight during the winter, right? Maybe not everyone. Sherlock probably hadn't gained a pound in years. As he thought it though, he knew it wasn't true. Sherlock was looking better than he had when they first met. He had put on some weight, his features not so gaunt anymore. Still, a few more scones for Sherlock would certainly help.

"Anything new at the Yard?" Sherlock suddenly asked. Lestrade leaned back in the chair.

"Nothing of interest to you."

Sherlock frowned, perturbed by the answer.

"I'm bored."

Lestrade sat very still. "You're always bored. Plus, don't you have your own cases?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's all so plebian. I need something interesting. Something challenging. What happened to all the serial killers?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade admonished. "Honestly. We don't want to wish death on someone just so you won't be bored anymore." He was annoyed with Sherlock. Genius aside, the man could be so utterly clueless sometimes.

Sherlock lazily looked at Lestrade. "It is the nature of Man. To kill. To be killed."

Lestrade's brows rose into his hairline. "Well, on that cheery, philosophical note, I’m leaving." Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him.  Just continued to stare into the distance, eyes glossy and faraway.

Lestrade rose and set his empty cup in the sink. He cast a nervous glance at Sherlock before calling out a goodbye. The sticky air greeted him as he stepped outside to hail a cab. He wanted a cool shower badly and his bed even worse. He tried not to think of Sherlock. He hated when the other man got like this. It was never a good sign of things to come. He almost, _almost_ hoped for a murder to land on his desk tomorrow. He was also going to hell, but if that was the case, he was dragging Sherlock along with him.

It was two weeks later, as Sherlock sat in Lestrade's office, glowering through the glass door at the officers milling about, that he began to get a nervous, foreboding feeling, deep down in his gut. Sherlock was tapping a pen against the edge of the desk whilst simultaneously bopping his knee up and down for close to half an hour now. Lestrade stared pensively at the younger man who was oblivious to his gaze.

He cleared his throat. "Sherlock?" No answer. That was the third time he'd called his name. He rose from his chair. "Sherlock!"

Finally the steel eyes blinked up at him, an awareness returning. "What?" he sniped.

Lestrade frowned. "I've been calling your name forever now. Where's your head at this morning?"

Sherlock thinned his lips, his eyes glaring daggers. He was clad in a well-fitted dark grey suit, and smart, expensive dress shirt. His hair was styled to perfection, finally outgrown to its usual shaggy length. He was all dressed up with nowhere to go, and he was not exactly thrilled about that. His long coat had been left at home for even Sherlock Holmes realized that it was the middle of summer and too damned hot and ridiculous to walk around with an overcoat.

Lestrade sighed, sitting back down. "Look, I get it. You have nothing on. But I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't exactly fish out a case for you from thin air. I've told you, you can sift through the older files if you want to." Sherlock rolled his eyes, irate. Lestrade went on. "You're making me all twitchy just watching you. Just relax for a bit, will you? I know it's asking a bit much but please. You're making the guys nervous," he said, indicating with a jerk of his head the men and women outside his office.

Sherlock raked his long fingers through his hair. "They're all idiots. I can't just do _nothing_ , it's maddening, this...inertia. It's not- I just-I need- I need..." he looked lost in daydream, staring off again. Lestrade felt his blood pressure increasing.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, what do you need? Tell me and we'll figure something out, okay? Sher?"

The young detective inhaled, finally snapping out of his stupor. "I have to go. Call me if anything comes up." He was already out of his chair and walking away before Lestrade could get a word out.

"Hey, stop! Where are you going?" Sherlock didn't pause or look back. Lestrade watched him walk down the hall, further away from him, his skin prickling with unease.

"Shit," he whispered to himself. What could he do? He couldn't babysit him, had no authority over him. If Sherlock wanted to go right now and get coked up there was nothing Lestrade could do to stop him. They've been through this before. And he recognized the gleam in Sherlock's eyes. The look that spoke of possibilities. Of relief from the mundane, however brief.

The thought curdled in his brain, rendering Lestrade useless for the rest of the day. There was nothing to be done, this discussion had already transpired. As long as Sherlock didn't show up high to his crime scenes, Lestrade couldn't-wouldn't say a word. No matter how much he wanted to.

"Fuck," he said, a bit louder. He tried to concentrate on work, on meetings, on other topics of conversation. He couldn't eat his lunch, his coffee tasted bitter and his stomach churned unpleasantly. The clock turned at a snail's pace and worst of all, Sherlock wasn't answering any of his texts. He thought about calling him, but he didn't want to come off as overbearing and untrustworthy. But the thought of what Sherlock was getting up to was more than he could stomach.

At six he said his goodbyes and took a cab home. He checked his phone. Nothing. He debated calling Mycroft but that would be unforgivable if Sherlock found out, which he would. Maybe he was over-exaggerating the situation. Maybe Sherlock wasn't out doing what he thought he was doing. He mentally groaned and rubbed his eyes, his forehead, his fingers damp with sweat. The humid air greeted him as he stepped out of the cab, paid his fare and went upstairs. The flat was dark and warm. He turned the AC unit on and went to make some tea. His stomach cramped but he couldn't even think of food.

He removed his clothing, relieved as the sticky, uncomfortable layers peeled off him. Clad in just his boxers, he sat on the sofa and turned on the telly. His tea sat untouched on the counter as the noise of the AC lulled him into a drowsy state. The program on the telly did nothing to keep his interest and before he knew it, he was dozing, his head thrown back against the sofa cushions.

It was dark out when he heard it. At first he thought it was his imagination, the incessant, annoying _thump thump thump_. He squinted open an eye, noticing the darkness around him, save for the soft glow of the television, now showing something different than what he initially started watching. He glanced down at his watch, though he had a hard time making out the hour. Then he heard it, louder still. Knocking. At his door. Frowning, he got up, barely remembering he was only clad in his boxers.

He walked over to the door, yawning halfway through. It wasn't very late, but he knew he wasn't expecting anyone. "Who is it?"

"It's me."

Lestrade blinked, and opened the door. "Sherlock?" he said, not bothering to mask his confusion. The younger man walked right on past him into the flat without saying a word. Lestrade mentally sighed and shut the door.

"What's this about then? I was having a lovely nap on the sofa, you know."

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, looking very lost. He blinked around, like he was seeing the place for the very first time. He was also studiously avoiding Lestrade's gaze, which naturally put the older man on edge.

"Sherlock. What's going on?" He walked over to the other man, standing close enough, but not invading his personal space. Sherlock was wringing his hands, a nervous habit that he didn't succomb to very often, his adam's apple bobbing nervously in his throat.

"Sherlock, I swear, if you're on something..." He let that trail off, not knowing how to even continue that sentence.

"I'm not," Sherlock finally said, his voice strained. He glanced at Lestrade, and even in the dimness of the room Lestrade could see the man's eyes, the vivid blue barely visible.

"Fuck, Sherlock! Don't come to my home and lie to me!"

Sherlock looked down at his feet. "I'm not on anything, I swear."

"Bullocks. You're sweating all over my floor and you never come to see me unless-"

"Lestrade." He looked square at him. "I am not on anything." He rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing pale, unmarked skin. It didn't appease Lestrade.

"That's not the only way to put stuff into your body, you've already proven that." He crossed his arms, hating this entire conversation.

Sherlock swallowed, averting his eyes momentarily. Then he took a deep breath.

"I wanted to. Badly. I won’t deny it. I could have done it so easily." He licked his lips, and met Lestrade's eyes. "But I didn't. I didn't. I wanted to. I still want to. I can think of nothing else."

Lestrade uncrossed his arms, chest heaving uncomfortably.

"Christ.” He ran his fingers through his greying hair, puffing out a breath of air through his mouth. "Okay fine. Say I believe you. You say you're clean. Fine. Why did you come here tonight?"

Sherlock looked away again, his hands resuming their previous nervous gestures. Lestrade took a step closer, watching as Sherlock visibly inhaled through his mouth. His forehead was beaded with perspiration and he looked ready to bolt. Lestrade lowered his voice.

"Talk to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock set his jaw, agitation flaring. "I don't want to talk, Lestrade. I just-"

"What, Sherlock?"

"I just need...to forget." And his eyes caught Lestrade's and refused to look away, a storm of emotions whirling around. Lestrade's breath caught.

"You need to what?" he asked, unaware of how stupid that question was until he saw it in Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh." His breath left him in a shudder and Sherlock finally looked away, humiliation burning in his eyes for the briefest of moments. Heat suddenly flared through Lestrade, hotter than anything the weather could produce, his blood burning through his veins, sending thrilling jolts of pure pleasure down to his very loins. What Sherlock was asking for, it was hard to comprehend and impossible to resist. He was so thrown off balance, he didn't even know what to say.

He cautiously took a step closer, practically feeling the waves of uncertainty radiating off Sherlock. He wanted to do everything in his power to quell that feeling from Sherlock. His prick had gone hard the instant he was aware of Sherlock's intentions, and his boxers certainly weren't helping to conceal it. He ignored that for now. He ignored everything apart from the beautiful man in front of him, straight out of a Botticelli painting. The glossy, dark curls, the pouty lips and the ethereal slant of his eyes all added to the illusion, rendering Lestrade speechless.

His arm reached forward, slowly, so as not to startle. The air hung between them, oppressive and silent and he longed to bridge the distance. Sherlock parted his lips slightly, his eyes uncertain and glazed with emotion. Lestrade was surprised and startled to find them so open. Lust burned through them, almost imperceptible if Lestrade hadn't known Sherlock so intimately. Blood pumped in his ears, loud and drowning, obscuring even the hum of the air conditioner.

His fingers grazed the front of Sherlock's dress shirt, skimming the fine material. Eyes locked on Sherlock's he methodically curved his fingers, clawing at the fabric until he was slowly tugging Sherlock closer to him. The younger man's cheeks were flushed an alluring pink, a very becoming look on the normally stoic detective. Ragged breath left parted lips as Lestrade tugged on Sherlock's shirt, practically crushing him to his chest.

His own breathing was uneven and strained as his erection pressed up against Sherlock's thigh, a shudder passing through the younger man's body at the sudden contact. His heart ached at the restraint Sherlock still insisted on exhibiting. There was no room for error here however, and Lestrade knew tenderness was not the way to go. Not now, not this night.

His fist clenched tighter, the fabric stretching across Sherlock's chest and shoulders. The glow of the television provided the barest hint of muscle definition below the fabric, leaving Lestrade salivating for more.

"I can make you forget, Sherlock. I can. But I want you to say it." He took pleasure as his words resonated with Sherlock with a shiver, pupils gone black as night. "Tell me," he whispered in his ear. "Tell me you want this more than a needle in your arm. Say it, Sherlock," his voice going harsh. He needed for Sherlock to tell him. He needed to hear him say it. He needed for Sherlock to realize he could get release without resorting to poisoning oneself. And a bit selfishly, he wanted to hear those words coming from this man. It was what he always wanted, and never realizing it until that moment.

He leaned back, staring intensely at Sherlock. The younger man-God so young, even now- looked at him with warring emotions, his tongue flicking out past his lips, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, driving Lestrade insane without even realizing it.

"Yes," came the strangled sound. "Yes, I want this...I want you to help me forget," he ended, nearly silent. Lestrade could only imagine how much the admission had cost Sherlock, but already his eyes had glazed over with lust, feral almost in the near-darkness.

One hand still latched onto Sherlock's shirt he snaked his other down past his waist, splaying his fingers over the heat of Sherlock's straining erection. Sherlock's eyes fluttered, his breath hitching. Lestrade's resolve was gone in that instant. He crushed Sherlock against him, lips, teeth, tongue gnashing violently. His hands came up to grab the sides of Sherlock's face, fingers merciless against the warm skin. The moan filling his mouth sent waves of pleasure down to his cock, grinding his body against Sherlock's like an animal in heat.

He guided Sherlock backwards until he was flush against the countertop, his hand roughly cupping Sherlock's erection, squeezing the length through the thin fabric of his trousers. He attacked his mouth, tasting cigarettes and mints, the latter not able to fully cover his addiction, but the combination was absolutely intoxicating to Lestrade. He swirled his tongue with Sherlock's, lapping up the flavor.

He wanted Sherlock. Wanted him like nothing he'd ever wanted before in his life. It physically hurt to think of how much he wanted Sherlock at that moment. He needed him more, though. He needed Sherlock like he needed air to breathe. He didn't realize how deep that feeling went until Sherlock wasn't there anymore. When Sherlock had avoided him like the plague. Lestrade had felt empty. Now he knew why. Despite all that Sherlock was, Lestrade was attracted to him. In every sense of the word. He was empty when Sherlock was gone. There was a void and he was too oblivious to realize what that meant.

Sherlock had come to him. Had trusted him enough to ask this of him, to prostrate himself before him, practically begging for his help. It made his knees buckle just thinking of the internal struggle Sherlock must have gone through before making that decision. It was nothing he could have imagined, and everything he secretly desired. If Sherlock wanted oblivion, Lestrade would do his very best to make sure Sherlock never thought twice about coming to him again.

Sherlock's long fingers were threading through Lestrade's hair, sending wonderful vibrations down his spine. He groaned into his mouth, grabbing Sherlock's hips and arching into his body, the friction unbearably erotic. He pulled back suddenly, out of breath and body on fire. His mouth was parted as he struggled to get air into his lungs, his eyes roaming every inch of Sherlock's frame. He looked positively debauched.

He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the edge of the countertop on either side of Sherlock. His dark eyes met Sherlock's glazed ones.

"I'm going to fuck you, Sherlock. You are not even going to be able to walk tomorrow," he promised, his voice low and gravelly. He watched in delight as Sherlock trembled under his gaze, a small hiss escaping past the plump, swollen lips. Taking that as a positive response, he grabbed the younger man's hand and led him into his bedroom. It was pitch dark but he wanted to properly see Sherlock. He turned on the dimmer to low, getting a better look at the other man than in the kitchen. Everything was askew, from hair to clothes, cheeks flushed, brow damp. He was perfect.

Lestrade pushed him down to the bed, pawing at his clothing in the meantime. He was struggling with all the buttons with his shaky fingers but found a pale hand suddenly covering his own. Looking up in question, Sherlock merely smirked and proceeded to undo the buttons himself. He was just starting on the clasp of his trousers when Lestrade halted him.

"Mine," he growled possessively. He pulled on the zipper, his eyes latched onto Sherlock's. The younger man's breathing was laboured slightly, his jaw set, straining. He slowly reached past the zip, inside his pants, his lips parting wider with each movement, until he found hard flesh, pulsating with heat. He couldn't contain the moan, his eyes shutting in reverence. He wouldn't last more than five minutes. He mentally swore and tried to will his body into stillness.

"God, Sher...this feels-" he swallowed roughly, finally opening his eyes. "So fucking incredible." Sherlock looked on, brow furrowed in contemplation. Lestrade wanted to erase any and all thought from Sherlock, no matter how impossible the task. He squeezed tight, eliciting a hoarse groan through clenched teeth.

Fuck this. He raised himself up and latched onto the waist of Sherlock's trousers, tugging them off, boxer briefs and all. Sherlock assisted, raising his hips in a motion that did nothing to quell Lestrade's libido. He was going to be in trouble if Sherlock continued in his oblivious ways. He ignored his naked body in favour of removing his shoes and socks. Then, he quickly pulled down his own boxers, already damp with pre-come. He tossed them away and finally dared a look.

It wasn't the first time he was seeing Sherlock naked. That thought didn't have any effect on him as he stared at Sherlock like a salivating tiger hunting his prey.

"Christ," he swore. The room was oppressively warm but he didn't feel like turning the AC on. He wanted to hear Sherlock. Every shudder, every whimper, every sound. He crawled on top of him on hands and knees, straddling over Sherlock's waist. He slowly arched his pelvis, rubbing against the younger man's weeping erection. It was like a jolt of fire against his already warm skin.

Sherlock leaned his head way back, hands fisting the sheets. Lestrade leaned forward, lips against the long neck, lapping at the salty dampness, carotid artery twitching underneath his tongue. He kissed his cheeks, lips brushing invisible stubble, all the while his hips undulating against Sherlock's body.

"I hope you brought the condoms," he whispered in his ear, nipping on a lobe. Sherlock stilled beneath him, unsettling him. He leaned back to look at Sherlock with a questioning quirk of his brow.

"I thought you might already have some."

Lestrade merely gaped for a moment, then leaned back, un-straddling Sherlock. He sat next to him on the bed, wiping his brow and mentally swearing his arse off. Sherlock took it as an answer.

"Oh." He released a shaky breath. "I just assumed..." he trailed off as Lestrade groaned into his hand.

"God, Sherlock. I'm a married man, I don't exactly keep condoms around the flat just because." Fuck, how inconvenient. He could feel his erection wilting. This was the most depressing situation imaginable. At least presently.

Sherlock licked his lips, and after a moment's hesitation, reached out and placed his hand on Lestrade's thigh, startling the older man out of his desperate thoughts.

"I- It's fine. I know you're clean, and I swear I am. I get tested three times a year. And... I'm clean," he finished resolutely, eyes catching Lestrade's.

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, mind going completely blank. Was he actually offering..? Jesus. His sad erection returned to full hardness in less than five seconds. He stared at Sherlock as his chest ached almost painfully.

"Sherlock." He could barely get the word out, his throat almost restricting the action. He took a deep breath through his nose, releasing it in one shaky go through his parted lips.

"I trust you," he said, and meant it. Sherlock was no saint but he knew without a hint of doubt he would never put Lestrade in a potentially dangerous situation. If he said he was clean, Lestrade was going to believe him. He had nothing else to say. Instead he leaned forward and captured Sherlock's lips, reassuring him with a lustful kiss. When they were both out of breath Lestrade excused himself, running to the bathroom to rummage for the bottle of Vaseline he knew he had somewhere.

When he returned, he found that Sherlock had turned down the sheets and was sitting, leaning back against the pillows and headboard. His cock was still hard, resting proudly up against his belly. Lestrade rushed over, dropping the small bottle on the bed.

Some of the hesitation and uncertainty seemed to have left Sherlock as he looked at the older man with a lascivious smirk, his eyes following Lestrade's every movement.

"Keep smirking. We'll see who's laughing tomorrow when they won't be able to sit straight."

Sherlock's look of eager amusement only increased. Lestrade narrowed his eyes as he crawled up in front of Sherlock, his hands running along the toned, lean legs, loving the soft, downy hair, up to the pale thighs where the hair was more coarse. He looked up as Sherlock's eyes grew dark and predatory. His fingers brushed along an inner thigh, feeling the waiting heat radiating off him.

The body against him was wound tight, humming with a nervous energy. Surely it wasn't Sherlock's first time, the younger man had already alluded to that. Maybe it was the first time that actually meant anything to him. The thought nearly drove him insane. He grabbed onto Sherlock’s cock, fingers barely brushing the swollen testicles, eliciting a low moan. He pumped his fist, thumb circling the tip, glistening with pre-come.

Sherlock's head came back, smacking against the wooden headboard. It didn't seem to bother him as he groaned, louder this time. Lestrade continued in this fashion, slowly driving Sherlock crazy. His own cock was weeping in need and he knew he wouldn't last long if he kept this up. He was already sweating and they had barely gotten started.

"Lie down," he said and watched as Sherlock scooted downwards, finally able to lay flat. With a deep breath, he picked up the Vaseline. His heart hammering in his chest, he pursed his lips, but had to ask.

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock looked up at him, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face before a more unsettling look of uncertainty passed over it.

"You said you'd help me," he whispered, almost accusingly.

Lestrade placed his hand over Sherlock's heart, shaking his head in disbelief. "God, Sher...of course I want to. Please don't ever think- I was just checking." God, talking was not a good idea right now. He placed his forehead against Sherlock's. "Sorry I asked," he said with a light tone.

He felt a warm hand on his arm, reassuring. He kissed Sherlock, fiery hot and desperate. There were no more questions after that, no more uncertainties. He prepared Sherlock with care, noting every grimace and hiss of pain, but reveling in the indescribable pleasure afterwards.

Strong arms gripped him, guiding him, riling him. It was heaven. Their sweat-soaked bodies moved with rhythm and precision, never faltering, never wavering. He didn't know if any of it helped Sherlock; made him forget his demons for a while, but it certainly did a number on his own mind. It felt fragmented and eviscerated, head pounding in a way that for once wasn't debilitating. He welcomed the blackout when it came, his entire body shutting down with exhaustion and pent-up release.

When he woke, he was alone. He tried not to dwell on the fact too much, knowing it would drive him insane. He closed his eyes and thought back to just a few hours prior, to the limbs intertwined with his own, to damp, dark curls plastered to forehead, to eyes bursting with pleasure when that blissful moment of release occurred, driving everything else away. Sated and exhausted, they had both fallen asleep.

Now he just felt sticky, in more ways than one. It felt oppressively muggy in his bedroom, and he was laying on a damp spot or two. The scent of Sherlock and sex drove his blood further down his body and he sat up, his chest tacky with seminal fluid. It wasn't the best of ways to wake up, but he found he didn't particularly care. He got up and went straight for the shower. The cool water rejuvenated him and he felt better than when he had first woken up, alone.

He got changed and went to the kitchen. His phone was on the table where he had left it the previous night, the tiny red light on the side of it flashing intermittently. Curious, he picked it up, flipping it open. The text was simple but meant the world to Lestrade, setting him in a fine mood.

      _Thank you. SH_

 

 

 


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains adult content.

Lestrade didn’t see Sherlock again for two weeks after that night at his flat. The young detective had texted him of his plans to travel to Brussels for a case. He’d mentioned he wasn’t sure how long he’d be gone. In truth, Lestrade was somewhat glad for the reprieve.

Since that night, he had learnt a thing or two about himself in regards to Sherlock. He couldn’t stop his mind from dwelling on it, constantly consumed with it. He was glad Sherlock wasn’t around because one look at him and he’d be plucking every dangerous thought from Lestrade’s mind, and it was the last thing he wanted. It was nothing he intended to happen and he wasn’t harbouring any delusions that Sherlock would appreciate what Lestrade had to offer.

He had already decided, long ago, that his friendship with Sherlock was more important than any sexual dalliance and he intended to keep it that way. He refused to do anything that might endanger that relationship or frighten Sherlock away, no matter how enticing the prospect of further developments appealed to him.

Sherlock was not one for relationships; he’d made that very clear from the start and Lestrade had to respect that. That fact did nothing to negate the roaring flash of arousal that consumed him day and night, driving him insane. He relished the distance currently separating them, fearful of their inevitable reunion.

He’d gotten a call about a double murder, mother and child. His stomach churned unpleasantly whenever cases like that showed up. It was never what a detective wanted to hear about. And yet, there he was, standing over two bloodied-up bodies, heaving a sigh loud enough to be heard throughout London.

The fog hung heavily that evening, and as he stepped away for a quick fag his phone chimed. He was surprised to find Sherlock responding to an earlier message. He wasn’t sure if the younger man was back in town but he chanced it when the case crossed his desk, almost by reflex.

      _Just left the cab. What is the house #? SH_

Lestrade went outside and glanced both ways, rather than texting back. The street was closed off with emergency vehicles and he walked a few yards before spotting the dark figure, made indistinguishable by the gloomy fog.

Despite his current situation, his heart clenched at the sight of Sherlock again. It wouldn’t do. He stuffed his hands in his suit jacket pockets, nodding towards Sherlock as he got closer. Sherlock exhibited his customary cool expression-blank with a hint of snideness- and god how Lestrade missed it.

“Sherlock,” he said calmly.

Sherlock nodded his hello, no different than any other time they’d met up. Lestrade’s stomach flipped pleasantly. At least he wasn’t dealing with the stony Sherlock from before. The third degree was not what he needed right now.

“Thanks for coming. I wasn’t even sure you were back,” he said as they walked back towards the scene of the crime.

“Just last night. Or morning I should say. Either way it was some ungodly hour.”

Lestrade smirked, but Sherlock was all business.

“So what is inside the home?” he asked as they bounded up the stairs of the row house.

“Nothing pretty, I’m afraid.” They went through the door, passing by a number of officers and forensics experts. Donovan glowered as she saw who Lestrade was with.

They approached the body of the mother, laying face down in a pool of blood, her head bashed in.”

Sherlock stared, still and silent. Then he crouched down for a closer look.

“You said there was two?”

Lestrade swallowed. “Upstairs bedroom. Her son. He was...shot. Multiple times.”

Sherlock stood up. “Take me there.”

Lestrade nodded and they made their way up the narrow staircase, Sherlock pausing twice, hands grazing the sides of the walls for some reason. Sherlock followed Lestrade down the hall to the last bedroom, where more people in white suits were milling about. Anderson was there, taking whatever evidence he could find. He also looked up in disbelief as they walked in.

“Inspector! I can assure you we have everything covered. We don’t need amateurs mucking up the crime scene!”

“Anderson, out. Come back in ten.”

The man stared and sputtered something unintelligent, then stormed past them, knocking Sherlock’s shoulder in passing. Thankfully, the younger man ignored the rudeness, concentrating more on his surroundings.

His eyes landed on the small body on the bed. Careful of where he stepped he made his way over and crouched on the floor, his coat splaying around him. One of Lestrade’s guys, Oliver, who’d seen Sherlock more than a few times actually came over to him, handing him a pair of rubber gloves. Almost surprised, Sherlock took them, offering a very quiet thank you. He snapped them on and proceeded to carefully examine the body.

It was over with in under five minutes, Sherlock then moving on to the blood stains on the wall behind the bed, and the streaks of red on the nearby nightstand. He sat on his haunches in silent contemplation. Then in one swift motion he stood up to full height and deftly removed both gloves.

“Was anyone else in the house at the time?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Just one other sibling, but he was at a friend’s house for a sleepover.

“Where is the father?”

Lestrade sighed. “They were divorced. We’re trying to locate him now.”

Sherlock said nothing, choosing to exit the bedroom. He walked back down the hall, stopping by what was clearly the master bedroom. He went inside, coming out ten seconds later. Then he went back downstairs, Lestrade following behind.

“Find him if you must, but I suspect he’s already dead,” Sherlock announced as he passed through the living area, stepping around the dead body on the floor. Lestrade frowned in confusion as he quickly strode after the young detective.

“What makes you say that?” No response. Sherlock actually walked out the front door, hopping down the stairs. Lestrade mentally swore and followed him.

“Sherlock, wait!”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, twirling around in clear agitation.

“Honestly, Lestrade, I don’t know why you bothered calling me in, it’s plain as day what transpired here and even a bumbling idiot like Anderson could figure it out.”

Lestrade crossed his arms, shooting Sherlock a glare of his own. “Out with it, Sherlock. I’m in no mood right now.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, heaving in irritation. “It’s clear the husband wasn’t too happy with whatever custody agreement was decided upon. It’s your average revenge killing. Husband kills ex-wife to repay her for ruining his life, taking away the kids. Husband kills kid, because if he can’t have him then nobody will. He shot him in bed, probably while the boy slept, sparing him any physical pain. The blood splatters confirm this but I’m sure you noticed the streaks, yes? He clearly expressed some grief as he knelt down, running his fingers across the boy’s face in remorse, then using that same bloodied hand to steady himself on the nightstand as he tried to stand, probably finding it difficult, what with killing his own son. There are very faint streaks of blood along the stairwell walls- once again he was supporting his body as he went back downstairs.

“He killed his wife first, but he used a blunt object as a gun is too loud and not intimate enough. He wanted her to feel it, feel what she did to him. Feel his wrath. Then after she was properly dead did he go upstairs to take care of his son. If the other brother was at home he too would have met the same fate.

“Statistically, men who kill their entire family as a means of revenge usually commit suicide shortly after, either at the scene of the crime or wherever he is currently residing. If he’s not already dead because of cowardness, he’s certainly waiting for the police to finish the job. Either way, he’s boring. Now, I have things I need to see to.”

Sherlock turned back around, feet clattering over pavement as the fog suddenly swallowed him whole, disappearing from view.

Lestrade stared, oblivious to Donovan’s voice calling him from the steps of the house. Cursing under his breath he retreated back to the scene, relaying Sherlock’s findings to the rest of his team. When that was done he excused himself for that smoke he never got before.

He inwardly seethed as he took a long drag, annoyed with himself and with Sherlock by default. He should have noticed it. Sure, everyone suspects the dad at first, and this was no exception, but the evidence was right in front of all of them and in fifteen minutes Sherlock had deduced the whole scene, play by play.

He felt like a rubbish detective. Sherlock was right. He was so used to calling on and relying on Sherlock that he almost forgot that he was supposed to be the fucking Detective Inspector of the Scotland Yard. What was the point of him?

He angrily stomped out his cigarette butt, resolve setting in. Fine. If Sherlock was so bored with all these ‘simple’ cases, then Lestrade would have to stop calling on him. He could take care of matters himself, damn it. He had a great team, a reliable team. He didn’t need Sherlock for every little murder case, showing all of them up, sneering at their ineptitude.

If Sherlock wanted in, well too fucking bad cause now it was up to Lestrade to decide whether it was appropriate or not. He didn’t need Sherlock. No, that wasn’t true. That was his hurt pride talking. There would be times when he needed Sherlock by his side. And he would hope Sherlock would come. But from now on he would be extremely selective about which cases he included Sherlock on. It would mean seeing less of Sherlock, no doubt of that, but it couldn’t be helped. Maybe it would be beneficial for them both. Less volatile. Less potential for disaster.

Yeah right, he thought.

***

August brought more heat and more sleepless nights. Lestrade didn’t do well in warm weather and the humidity sometimes sent his hibernating asthma back to the forefront. He’d had it bad when he was a boy. Playing sports was nearly impossible and the warm summers didn’t do him any favours. That’s why he’d always preferred Brighton. The ocean breezes and cool nights provided him relief whenever his family went on holiday.

Luckily, the asthma symptoms lessened as he progressed into Uni, a development his doctors said were surprising and rare, but not unheard of. He didn’t care, he was thrilled to finally be able to ride a bike or swim in the sea without using his inhaler. He passed his physical exams for the police academy without a single hiccup. It was the best day of his life.

He still kept an inhaler, for emergencies of course. He had one at work and two at home. Lately, he found himself puffing on it more times than he’d like to recall, and he loathed it with every breath he took.

And it wasn’t even anything physical he did. Just standing in front of the stove cooking dinner would send him to his nightstand where his inhaler sat dormant. The humidity was torture and sleep was hard to come by, even in his air conditioned space.

He was off for the next two days; a rarity but he’d take it. He loved his job but he loved doing absolutely nothing, too. But boredom crept in quickly and soon he was going out of his mind. He thought about going for a walk but the humidity was too stifling for anything physical. He tried to read but grew tired of it after a few pages. He didn’t realise what a boring existence he led until he actually tried living it.

He reached for his iPhone (Sherlock had actually purchased it for him, claiming he detested waiting for the long pauses between responses while Lestrade attempted to text on his old flip phone) and wrote out a text.

      _I’m bored._

There, see how Sherlock liked it… The response was instant.

      _Come over and help me pack. SH_

Lestrade rolled his eyes and typed out a response.

      _I’m sure you know how to pack your own bag by now._

_I’m moving. Will you come or do I have to suffer through this trivial activity myself? SH_

If there was an emoticon for ‘eye roll’ Sherlock would be using it. And what? Sherlock was moving? What the hell was he talking about? Just as he thought it, the phone chimed.

      _I have mentioned this possibility to you. Numerous times. SH_

Lestrade got that creepy feeling he always got when he thought Sherlock could read his mind, even across town. He recalled earlier conversations where Sherlock mentioned potentially moving. He got it after a minute.

      _Oh, right. Death Row wife on Baker Street. I suppose I have some free time. Gimme a few._

He dressed in shorts and a tee, grabbed his inhaler and wallet and left his flat.

When he got to Sherlock’s the place was in disarray. There was hardly room to walk and every sitting option was covered with random items. It was chaos.

“Not my idea of a good time on my day off,” muttered Lestrade as he carefully wrapped dishes and glasses, setting them gently in cardboard boxes.

Sherlock was tinkering with his microscope, hardly bothering to pack at all. Books were stacked a mile high on the kitchen table, and more still remained on the shelves. There was no rhyme or reason to anything.

“Sherlock, how are you actually getting all this over to your new place?” He found the thought of Sherlock hiring a moving company laughable and strange.

“Mycroft is sending people,” he said with a crinkle in his forehead.

“Ah, that was...nice of him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, any way to get me out of here and closer to where he lives is more like it. It’s not like I owe him thanks or anything.”

Lestrade blinked. “Right.”

They packed in silence for the most part, the lack of airconditioning in the flat causing Lestrade to practically drip with sweat. Additionally, moving heavy boxes around the place had him winded, literally. They stopped for some tea and that’s when Lestrade took out his inhaler, taking a puff. Sherlock paused in his movements, blinking in surprise.

“I didn’t know you were asthmatic.”

“Well you can’t know everything, can you?” he replied in jest. His hand came up to his chest, an automatic reflex as he tried for a deep breath. He noticed Sherlock watching him with guarded eyes.

“It’s the heat, really. Or the humidity. Whatever it is, I don’t get it in the winter.” He wasn’t sure why he was trying to reassure Sherlock. The man couldn’t be arsed about anything or anybody. But something in those steel blue eyes made him want to reach out, metaphorically speaking.

Sherlock frowned, looking lost for a second, before heading to the sink to drop his cup off.

“You don’t have to stay and assist,” he suddenly announced, voice low, nonchalant.

Lestrade stared at his back, his heart clenching with something he dared not name. Something he could never admit to himself and especially not to Sherlock. He plastered a grin on his face.

“If I left you to it, you’d never be moved out. You’d still be here a month later, sorting out your medical periodicals.”

Sherlock turned around, a half-hearted smirk crossing his face. “You’re probably right. Although I could just get Mycroft’s people to pack the boring things for me,” he finished with his usual snobbery.

Lestrade laughed. “You git. You’d actually do that, is the sad thing.”

Sherlock merely shrugged. “They get paid either way. If they are going to babysit me, they might as well make themselves useful.”

“What, you think Mycroft is actually using them to spy on you?”

“Mycroft uses everyone he can to spy on me,” he said cryptically.

Lestrade frowned. “I’m not.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said with customary eyeroll.

Lestrade replied with one of his own, and they got back to packing, Sherlock stopping every twenty minutes to play on his violin. It was nice, but rather distracting-and unproductive. At one point, Lestrade almost sat on it, earning him a scathing glare.

“Kindly refrain from destroying my Strad,” he seethed, leaving Lestrade gawking in disbelief.

“Your _Strad_? This thing that you’ve practically abused ever since I’ve known you? You’re telling me that is a priceless violin?” he asked, incredulous.

Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he were an idiot. “ _Yes_ , it’s a Strad, and I can’t exactly procure another so try to watch where you sit,” he finished severely.

“How did you even get one? I thought they were all in museums or owned by super wealthy musicians.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was a gift.” He turned away with a frown, and Lestrade let it go for now, sensing Sherlock’s mood change. They continued packing in companionable silence, broken only when Lestrade accidently found an old photo of Sherlock, from Primary School.

He chuckled as he showed it to Sherlock, whose eyes widened in mild shock. He promptly snatched it away, throwing Lestrade a glare.

“Careful, Lestrade, or I can get Mycroft to procure one of you in your nappies. I’m sure it won’t be a bother for him,” he threatened.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I was rather a cute baby, I’ll have you know.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched as he turned away to the task at hand. Lestrade called that a victory.

It was well past midnight when they called it quits, and Lestrade hardly even minded about how utterly wasted his day off was.

***

Summer quickly turned to autumn, London bursting with color. Lestrade loved it. The crisp weather, the reds and yellows of falling leaves, crunching pleasantly beneath his feet. His pace quickened as he caught sight of 221B Baker Street. It really was an ideal location. There were shops and cafes and eateries all within walking distance. Not to mention it was a million times more clean and more safe than Sherlock’s previous residence.

He rang the bell and was soon met with a rather short older woman, with a dazzling smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“You must be Mrs. Hudson,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m Greg. Pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Oh, do come in, dear! It’s lovely to meet one of Sherlock’s friends.” She smiled again, leading him inside. “Sherlock is upstairs. Why don’t you head up and I’ll be up in a tick with some tea and scones.”

“Oh, that’s very nice, ma’am. You don’t have to trouble yourself.”

She waved him off. “Oh please, Sherlock is a darling and he is always so busy he sometimes forgets to stop and eat something. I don’t mind, just this once!” She exclaimed with a little nod. “Now up you get!”

Lestrade smiled to himself as he climbed the stairs, rounding the corner to Sherlock’s flat. First impression was favourable. Clutter everywhere you stepped, as if the movers(or Mycroft’s guys) merely dumped everything where they came in. Or Sherlock really was this messy. But the place had potential. It was large, twice the size of Sherlock’s old flat, and much nicer aesthetically.

“Sherlock?” he called out when he didn’t see him in the living area.

“In here,” came a voice from what was probably the bedroom. He stepped over various items until he made his way over to the doorway. He popped inside, finding Sherlock hanging what appeared to be a long wooden plaque with a sword attached to it. Upon closer inspection, Lestrade saw Sherlock’s name on the plaque, along with a date of 1996 and ‘First Place’.

“Well, you’re full of surprises,” he said by way of greeting. He watched for a moment as Sherlock eyed the plaque, making sure it was perfectly level. The sword- fencing sabre more like- looked untouched for years and Lestrade wondered how Sherlock even got into something like fencing.

“Didn’t figure you for a sports club sort of chap.”

Sherlock stood back, hands on hips as he continued his inspection. “Father insisted. It was...tolerable I suppose, as sports go. I nearly always won,” he finished with a slight curve of lip, finally turning to Lestrade.

The older man huffed out a laugh. “I bet. So, nice place you got here.”

Sherlock gazed around. “Yes, it will do nicely I think. Plenty of room for my experiments.” He walked back to the living area, Lestrade right behind him. Sherlock threw himself into his worn leather chair, head falling back.

“Unpacking is even more tedious than packing,” he complained.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “You’ve been here nearly two weeks. I’d have figured you’d be done with all that by now.” Sherlock had actually taken his sweet time moving, until Mycroft had intervened in early September.

Sherlock shut his eyes in boredom. “I had cases to attend to. I don’t have time to bother with unpacking boxes,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Knock, knock!” They both turned as Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a large tray. Lestrade raced over to assist her.

“Oh thank you, dear, appreciate it. Hip’s been off today,” she said with a tut. He put the tray down on the first level surface he could find- a double stack of musty history tomes.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’m out of milk,” Sherlock suddenly chimed in. Lestrade turned his head, incredulous to the offhand demand. He was just about to chide Sherlock when Mrs. Hudson let out a giggle.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re always out of milk! Lucky for you I’m heading off to the market in a bit. Bread and cheese too for you, dear?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock lazily said without so much as a glance in her direction.

“Well I’d better be off. You boys behave yourselves!” She cheerily scooted away, leaving Lestrade to stare with wide-eyed confusion at the younger man still splayed across dark leather.

“What the hell, Sherlock? Do you always make her go shopping for you?”

“Not always. She won’t buy my cigarettes.”

Lestrade muttered obscenities under his breath, a hand rubbing his forehead methodically.

“Oh don’t be such a bore!” Sherlock suddenly roared, jumping out of the chair with renewed energy. “I assure you, she enjoys every moment.” His eyes glittered with amusement and Lestrade let it go for the time being. It was rare to see Sherlock in a jovial mood and he didn’t wish to spoil it.

“Well, I’m glad for you, Sherlock. Really I am.” Lestrade meant it. He’d never been happier for Sherlock, and it looked like Mrs. Hudson might be a good influence on him, though he kept that part to himself.

“Yes, well, I’ll be glad when you give me a case,” Sherlock quipped snidely.

Lestrade stared back disapprovingly. “I’ve told you already, they’re watching me more closely now. I can’t exactly invite you over every time a murder crosses my desk. I’ll call you when I need you.”

He in fact had not been monitored any further than usual, and he hated lying to Sherlock about that, but it got him thinking that it could well be a possibility in the near future. One word from a disgruntled officer to the higher-ups and Lestrade’s head could be on the chopping block. Sherlock had scoffed the first time Lestrade mentioned it, but Lestrade stayed firm on the matter. He was a damned Inspector and he could manage quite well on his own, thank you very much.

Still, it hadn’t stopped Sherlock from nagging or cajoling Lestrade when the weeks went by with not a single invite. He really did hate not calling Sherlock, simply for the fact that the man was brilliant and more observant than his entire unit, himself included, though he’d never admit it to the younger man. His ego was large enough.

On top of everything else, Lestrade still could not stop thinking of Sherlock without imagining him naked and in bed with him. It had been weeks since that fateful and wonderful summer night, and not a word was uttered between them, by some unspoken agreement. Sherlock didn’t act any different and Lestrade put on his best poker face every time they were in the same room.

And he was doing so well too. Time away from Sherlock helped; his life went on as usual. And then he’d lay eyes on him once more and his heart beat faster and louder. His brain turned to mush and he was essentially useless. Granted Sherlock didn’t notice any of this, or if he did he never said a word or looked at him peculiarly.

Sometimes, it was on the tip of his tongue, just wanting to burst out and he figured, what could possibly happen? But he turned into a coward when he saw those eyes looking at him, debilitating him. It was torture. He was walking around horny half the day, cursing Sherlock with every fibre of his being. And Sherlock was always calm and collected. Lestrade loathed him.

The strange part was, he didn’t even think to do anything about it. Not once did he consider going out and getting laid. Sure, sleeping with Sherlock pretty much amounted to a one night stand, but the thought of anyone’s hands on him churned his stomach. His own wife didn’t even cross his mind anymore. All he wanted was within reach, and yet impossible to achieve. Sherlock was untouchable. In this, Sherlock was in charge. If Sherlock came to him tomorrow and asked for Lestrade’s help, then God help him he’d do it without a word of protest. But if he never came to him again, he’d have to respect that and move on with his life. But it would shatter him.

The not knowing was the worst. He never brought it up so it was partly his fault. Did Sherlock even enjoy sex? From what he could surmise: yes. He was just not overly sexual. His drive was low and he found it unnecessary and mostly pointless. Lestrade didn’t understand this, but he didn’t question it. Sherlock was different than most men. That’s why he liked Sherlock. Despite the baggage that came with him.

He still got shivers up his spine when he recalled how Sherlock’s body felt beneath him. The impossible heat, threatening to overwhelm him. Fingers clawing at flesh, the deep moan somewhere in the back of his throat, so low and so hungry. There was no forgetting that. He wondered if the agony would be less if he hadn’t slept with Sherlock. But his brain refused to entertain that possibility. There was only Sherlock, and nothing and no one existed before that. Or after.

He sighed. “I promise to call you when we’re stumped, kay?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and chose to ignore Lestrade after that. The Inspector clasped him on the shoulder as he made his way to the door. “Stay out of trouble in the meantime. We’ll plan for takeaway one night soon, yea?”

“What for?” Sherlock replied with an uninterested air. Lestrade sighed once more.

“Don’t get snarky with me, ya git. And don’t exhaust your landlady or she’ll kick you out once she really gets to know the real you.”

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said with a devilish smirk. “I did put her husband on Death Row. She’s eternally grateful, you see.”

Lestrade groaned, waving goodbye without saying another word.

***

Lestrade already wasn’t in a good mood when he arrived at work. He got a migraine in the middle of the night and it hadn’t dissipated a bit since then. The meds hardly dulled it and every step he took was torture. He barely sat down in his chair when Donovan burst in.

“Have you heard? Freak’s in holding. Got picked up trespassing last night. Claimed he had a right to be there. Flashed the officer this.” She threw down on his desk an ID. It was his own. He vaguely recalled displacing it, months ago.

“Damn it.” He didn’t even have time for coffee. Donovan almost had a skip to her step as they walked down to the holding cells. Sherlock was in the first cell, sitting upright on the hard cot. His eyes passed over him to coldly glare at Donovan.

“Stealing from a police officer is a criminal offence, freak. I think even you can see how common sense that fact is,” Donovan declared with a fierce sneer. Lestrade rubbed at his eyes, his migraine intensifying, if possible.

“Donovan, I got it here. Go on upstairs.” She blinked at Lestrade, her mouth turning down unpleasantly. She clearly wanted to argue, but one look at Lestrade had her huffing off. Sighing loudly, he braced his hands on his hips and turned his full attention towards the imprisoned detective.

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock.” He had more to say, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was thoroughly exhausted and in excruciating pain. Sherlock stared back with an unreadable, bland expression.

“What were you thinking? Trespassing on a public official’s property? Stealing my ID? I don’t even wanna know what you thought you were doing. Seriously, Sherlock, are you-”

“Am I what?” snarled Sherlock suddenly, getting up from the cot in one fluid motion and advancing towards the cell door. He snaked his long fingers around a bar, leaning forward so that his face nearly touched the cold metal.

“Go on,” he spat with a venomous glare. “Ask me then. Am I what? _On_ something? It’s not like I can’t see it plastered all over your face!”

Lestrade pursed his lips, his head protesting the loud volume. He felt momentarily chagrined because that was precisely what he was thinking. It was usually the go-to reason behind Sherlock’s more disturbing antics.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

Sherlock stared back coldly, fingers clutching the bars until his knuckles turned bone-white. “You are no better than Mycroft. The both of you jump to the same conclusion.”

Lestrade blanched, but Sherlock kept going. “That public official you so casually mentioned just happens to be involved in a child pornography ring spanning nine other countries. The division that is supposed to handle that is even more incompetent than your own division. I was working off a tip and felt time was of the essence. Forgive me for inconveniencing you with my sudden detainment,” he finished with a bitterness that was both mocking and truthful. With a final glare he turned away from Lestrade, and settled again on the cot, laying flat on his back, eyes on the ceiling.

“Go ahead, call Mycroft. Tell him I’m going to need bail money anyway.”

Lestrade slumped in exhaustion and this time he placed his own hands over the bars, leaning close.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You’re right, I jumped to conclusions. I don’t know if I will ever not think that. Not with you. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. I despise myself for thinking it, but you can’t expect me to sweep your past under the rug, Sherlock. It wasn’t as long ago as you think that we were in this same position. I remember all too well, no matter how much I wish I didn’t.

“Now I’m going to go upstairs, and tell them exactly what you just told me, and then we are going to properly get a warrant and search that fucker’s home until we find what we need.” He blew out a puff of air, looking at Sherlock with a resigned air. “And you’re gonna stay put until I hear something back.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He barely acknowledged Lestrade, choosing to stare up at the dark ceiling, eyes unblinking. Lestrade sighed, sparing one last glance before heading back upstairs to do as he promised.

Several hours later, and one ignored call from Mycroft had Lestrade standing over piles of evidence that was permanently burned into memory. It was horrid, loathsome and abhorrent beyond words. The arrest had gone smoothly with Lestrade accompanying the head of the Paedophile Unit along with other officers from the Met. The shocking amount of evidence found was mind-boggling and depressing. Sherlock had been right. Not that Lestrade had any doubts on that account.

It was just infuriating that Sherlock couldn’t-wouldn’t abide by the rules. It was always his way. Everything else didn’t matter to him, as long as he solved the case. Lestrade had bent the rules for Sherlock in the past. It wasn’t so hard to do when the guy could solve a case before tea time. But that was usually when Sherlock was actually assisting on one of Lestrade’s cases. Not going off on his own like a vigilante. That’s not how Lestrade operated, and if he wanted to keep his own job, he’d have to have a talk with Sherlock.

Before he even left the crime scene he sent a call over to the Met to have Sherlock released as soon as possible. Donovan was not pleased, but he really couldn't deal with any more insubordination that evening. His head was absolutely killing him. So much so that he went straight home to lie down. He ended up passing out on the couch until morning.

***

Since Sherlock’s release, he hadn’t heard a whisper from him. Lestrade wasn’t sure if he should take the initiative. What did Sherlock expect of him? An apology? He’d already gotten one and he wasn’t feeling all that charitable to dole out another. He was still peeved that Sherlock nicked his ID badge.

Even so, a week went by and still nothing from Sherlock. He was more annoyed than worried. Sherlock sulking was not anything Lestrade wanted to deal with, so he let him be. His migraine had finally dissipated and he was starting to feel better physically. He was wrapping up a couple of cases and generally work was going quite well.

When two weeks had passed however, he found himself staring down at his phone, contemplating a phone call. The question was, whom to call? In the end, cowardness won out.

_No word from Sherlock. Assuming he’s just busy._

He bit his lip as he waited for the response.

      _Sherlock is fine, Inspector. MH_

Lestrade breathed a sigh of relief. So Sherlock was just ignoring him, as usual. The thought wasn’t pleasant but at least it was preferable to the alternative. He thought about texting Sherlock, trying to come up with a probable reason for doing so, but Sherlock would see through everything he tried. In the end, he decided to wait Sherlock out.

A week later he received a phone call, but it wasn’t the one he thought, nor was it anything he ever wanted to hear. He sat in stunned silence in his office as he listened to the voice on the other end. The voice telling him his mother had passed away. It didn’t make sense at first, the words not sinking in at all. All he heard was the tear-filled voice of his aunt, Beth, muttering something indistinguishable. But no matter how many times Beth repeated those words, they still amounted to the same thing.

He begged off worked and sat in his flat in the dark, merely staring straight ahead, his mind a jumble. His mother had been eighty six years old and in rather good health. He always thought she would live to be a hundred. Sadly, she suffered a stroke in the night, and never woke up. It was a cold comfort to know she did not suffer. She was still too young in his mind. And he just couldn’t get a grip on the fact she was now dead.

His father had died when he was still a boy and he was an only child so he had no one to share in his grief. The thought was debilitating and depressing. The funeral was to be in two day’s time in Somerset, his hometown. His aunt had filled him in with all the details. He could barely remember any of them.

His phone kept going off. A constant stream of messages and condolences that he didn’t care to listen to at the moment. He muted his mobile and went to pack.

***

The train station was absolutely packed when he touched down on the platform. Thankfully his luggage consisted only of a carryon so he didn’t have to wait around. He wanted to get home and hop in the shower.

The journey back from Somerset took longer than usual, as the train had to stop for two hours for unnamed repairs. It was eight in the evening when Lestrade finally arrived back in London, nerves shot to hell. His four days off did nothing for his frame of mind. If anything, it only increased his anxiety at being home and missing his mum all over again.

The funeral was tasteful and lovely, or as tolerable as a funeral can get. His mum had many friends and admirers, and the church was positively packed. It was nice to gather with family members he hadn’t seen in years, but the circumstances were not ideal.

To top it off, Sherlock had not contacted him. Not once. Not even a simple acknowledgement. He had to have known. Mycroft surely knew and he had a suspicion he informed Sherlock as well.

He felt miserable, worn down. Alone. He used to think people wanted to be left alone after the death of a loved one. To mourn in solitude without fear of embarrassment or false platitudes. He had not cried for his mother. He felt it like a punch in the gut. The pain reverberating throughout his body. But there were no tears. He felt too exhausted to cry. And his mother had looked so peaceful laid out in her casket.

He blinked away the thoughts. Tomorrow he had to go back to work and he needed to clear his head. It wouldn’t do to walk around like a zombie all day. He just wanted a hot shower and his bed.

Unfortunately, nothing ever worked out for Lestrade. After the cab dropped him off at his darkened flat he entered the lift, too tired too trudge up to the second floor. He approached his door, about to use his key when a prickle of something gave him pause. With his free hand he closed on the knob and turned.

Fuck. The knob turned without issue, indicating two things. One, it was unlocked. And two, he had a visitor. He forcefully picked up his suitcase he had set down, and opened the door, nearly slamming it shut but that would’ve been a tad childish.

“I’m not in the mood tonight, Sherlock.” He flipped on the light switch, eyes blinking at the sudden change. His gaze immediately fell upon Sherlock, sitting casually on his sofa, coat wrapped around him like a blanket.

“Inspector,” he said by way of greeting.

The deep voice inadvertently sent shivers down Lestrade’s spine. He hadn’t seen the guy in over a month and now this all over again. It was just too much all at once.

“Not kidding, Sherlock. I want a shower and my bed, and I want you to leave. I’ve got a headache, so it’s really preferable you don’t speak.” He walked past the living room, straight to his bedroom, dropping his luggage on the floor. He grabbed a clean pair of boxers from his drawers and went back out to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him, his back planted against the hard surface, eyes squeezed shut. When his breathing returned to somewhat normal, he turned on the tap and undressed.

The scorching water was a bit too much, but he needed it after his long day. Or long week, more like. It burned right through his achy muscles, strained and tired, rinsing away his misery, if only for a few precious seconds. His forehead touched the damp tile, hands splayed on either side as the spray massaged his back, torching him deliciously.

So consumed was he by the pleasant burning that he didn’t hear the door click open. Nor the sudden jerking of his shower curtain, opening and closing so quickly he barely had time to turn around.

“What the-”

Sherlock’s lips slammed into his, hard and unyielding, his long fingers snaking around his head, threading through his short locks. Lestrade stilled, his eyes wide with shock at the sudden assault. He couldn’t move or breathe or even think. He was about to push Sherlock away, thinking briefly how utterly inappropriate a time this was, when he realized how hard he really was.

A rush of blood, a pleasant blaze that had nothing to do with the water that time, and Lestrade had his arms around Sherlock without ever remembering doing so.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, when he finally got some air. Sherlock assaulted his neck, lapping, nipping, sucking, his arms all over the place. It was too much. Lestrade would surely pass out from all the heat, surrounding him. He blindly reached back and grabbed for the tap, turning it to a slightly cooler temperature. Sherlock grabbed his cock, squeezing so tight Lestrade lost his breath.

He groaned and slammed his head back against the tile, resting his arms on Sherlock for support as the younger man went down to his knees and swallowed Lestrade’s cock in one go. This was no languid, slow burning blowjob. No, this was a full on assault, his nerve endings almost protesting the severity.

There was no respite. There was just Sherlock’s mouth and his tongue and his heat. His knees shook, barely able to support himself, but thankfully his body knew what he needed, and it had been too fucking long. His fingers clenched into Sherlock’s hard shoulders even as he arched into his mouth, the orgasm taking him by surprise. Sherlock gripped his hips, keeping him in place as he expertly swallowed every drop, milking him until Lestrade nearly cried out.

He felt his body drooping, knees finally giving out. He sat back in the tub, breath ragged and strained, and humiliatingly close to tears. Sherlock had unleashed in him what his own mother’s funeral could not. Release.

He hated Sherlock suddenly. Despised his presence. How dare he? He didn’t exist for a month and now, now he decided it was time to return to Lestrade, and what? Jump him in the shower? What the fuck was he playing at? The tears were perilously close now, but he was so angry and conflicted. He did not want to cry in front of this man. He was not his friend. A friend would never have left him to mourn alone. Or ignored him. Sherlock was not his friend. He wasn’t…

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to open them lest they betray him. They burned beneath his closed lids. He wanted Sherlock to leave him alone. He wanted-.

“Greg.”

His breath hitched and he felt warm fingers along his jaw, a thumb running over the long stubble on his cheeks, his chin.

“Greg,” the silky voice repeated, urging him. He cracked open his eyes, his vision taken up by a very blurry Sherlock crouching down in front of him. His eyes were tinged with red, most likely from the water pouring down on him, making the blues that much more startling. His inky hair lay flat against his head, stringy strands plastered over his forehead as watery rivulets dropped from the tips, trailing down his pale face.

He looked so young it made Lestrade ache all over again. He wasn’t sure what to think anymore. He felt like he didn’t know Sherlock at all, looking at him now. This was not the same person that infuriated Lestrade, ignored him, left him. Not the same man purring _Greg,_ like he said it every day, like he had a right to say it.

He clenched his fists, glaring at Sherlock past the water pouring in between them. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, mouth turning down in the slightest of pouts. Lestrade clenched his jaw, breath turning ragged with each passing second.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he ground out, chest heaving uncomfortably. A flash of something passed over Sherlock’s face before it was gone, and his hand retreated. Lestrade snatched it, his grip tightening over the pale wrist. Sherlock barely even glanced at it, his eyes on Lestrade’s.

The older man continued to glare, the blood pounding in his ears. With every heaving breath he took, he felt his body turning to molten lava, the bright blue eyes staring serenely back at him.

No matter how angry he was at Sherlock, he just couldn’t constrain his own reaction to the closeness of his presence. Months of deprivation accumulating to this moment, just a few inches separating them. His erection bobbed against his leg, an interesting reminder that despite his age and previous orgasm, Sherlock still had power over him. He had no self-control against the man. One fucking look and he was rendered defenseless, the fragility of it scaring him.

Sherlock would always break his heart. He knew that, too. He knew it- and he knew that Sherlock knew it, because it couldn’t be helped because that’s just who Sherlock was. And it would be his own fault whatever happened from there on out.

The decision took all of two seconds. With renewed vigour and a set mind, he pounced on Sherlock, nearly knocking him down. He yanked on his wrist, inadvertently lifting him up as he got to his shaky feet. His grip firm, he turned Sherlock around, pinning him flat against the wet tiles. He got close to him, his hard prick straining against Sherlock’s arse, the friction driving him mad.

Rational thought had long deserted him as he roughly trailed his hands up and down the lithe body, squeezing none too gently on a pale cheek. Sherlock’s forehead touched tile, his hair obstructing Lestrade’s view. He wanted Sherlock. He wanted to fuck him. He wanted to own him. It was a dangerous thought, that, for Sherlock was not one to be claimed, to be tamed. And yet he kept coming back.

He had nothing in the tub to use as lubricant but soap. It was not ideal and he didn’t want to pause this and move to the bedroom. He cursed, then whispered in Sherlock’s ear. “Don’t you dare fucking move.”

In an instant, he hopped out of the shower, water dripping everywhere, and pulled open the medicine cabinet over the sink, finding the jar of Vaseline he kept there. In less than five seconds he was back inside the steamy warmth of the tub.

He uncapped the Vaseline and scooped out a liberal amount, making sure to keep his hand away from the spray of the water. He leaned against Sherlock’s back, arm reaching around to splay against Sherlock’s stomach, inching lower until he felt Sherlock’s erect cock, scorching his hand. He heard Sherlock sigh, low and pleasure-filled.

With his free hand, he reached downward, rubbing the slippery goo down the crevice of Sherlock’s arse, relishing the feel of the smooth skin under his hand. He made quick work of his preparations as Sherlock arched back into his touch. He scooped up more Vaseline, this time for himself, spreading it up and down his shaft, his hands shaking in anticipation.

He could feel Sherlock tense beneath him, his fingers clawing at the tile. It made Lestrade that much more hungry for it. There were no thoughts save for Sherlock’s willing body surrendering to him. And when that blissful moment of being suddenly surrounded by Sherlock’s heat occurred, then it was pure oblivion. He grabbed onto Sherlock for dear life and pummeled into him with reckless abandon, not caring whether it was what Sherlock wanted. Whether he had hurt him or humiliated him. In the end, when he finally found his release once more, his seed seeping from Sherlock’s body, he slumped against his back, out of breath and energy, satisfaction oozing from every crevice.

His limbs refused to cooperate as Sherlock dried them off, first himself, then Lestrade, silently and efficiently. Lestrade barely registered the twinges of pain Sherlock elicited with every movement. He was being guided to his bed. Then warmth, covers being draped over him. Then, darkness, sleep coming instantly, his body shutting down.

Memory woke him, startling him out of oblivion, smacking him with a force he wasn’t prepared for. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make sense out of everything. Despite the layers of blankets, he froze to the bone as he vividly recalled what just transpired. Every single moment played out in his mind with perfect clarity, the puzzles fitting into their slots.

He burrowed deeper under his covers, feeling ill. Shame and horror filled his mind at what he’d done to Sherlock, and his chest felt tight, airways restricted. He was suffocating.

“Stop that.”

Lestrade flinched at the voice, so close by. He threw his blankets away as his eyes landed on the dark figure calmly sitting in the corner chair. Sherlock sat upright, but his posture was relaxed, an indication he’d been there quite some time. He was dressed in his customary dark suit, his hair dry and styled to perfection.

“Christ…” Lestrade whispered, his voice near breaking.

“I told you to stop it,” Sherlock repeated once more, his eyes finding Lestrade’s. The older man looked away, unable to hold the gaze for more than a second. He brought his hands to his face, roughly rubbing at his eyes.

“Oh god. Sherlock, oh god...I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-I don’t even recognize myself! What I did-oh my god…” his voice wavered, cracked. He still couldn't look at Sherlock. He was the lowest type of coward. He couldn’t even look at the very person he had hurt. And ‘hurt’ was an understatement in his book. He used Sherlock, plain and simple. He was brutal and unapologetic and he used him just to sate his own needs, to forget everything even at Sherlock’s expense.

He heard Sherlock take a deep breath, but the younger man said nothing. Maybe he was waiting for more groveling.

“Sherlock,” he began, his voice thick with anxiety. “I don’t even know what to say. There’s nothing I can say to fix-”

“Greg.” It was like a command; firm, authoritative. Lestrade glanced up through blurred eyes. Sherlock still sat where he was, his eyes unreadable.

“I’m going to say this once, because you know how I hate to repeat myself. Stop this inane chatter because if you speak one more word of apology in any other form I shall leave.”

Lestrade stared back in shock, his mouth thin with disbelief. He raised his chin.

“Come here,” he said softly.

After a beat Sherlock stood, and the wince he wasn’t quick enough to hide destroyed Lestrade, his face crumbling. “Oh god…”

Sherlock had the audacity to roll his eyes. He stood over Lestrade, heaving a sigh.

“If it’s all the same to you I’d rather not discuss this. It won’t serve a purpose aside from wasting both our time, as we both have places to be this morning. I’ve laid out some clothes for you as I assumed you would not be in the proper frame of mind to dress yourself.  I have some business myself I need to attend to so I’m going now.” He paused, looking down. “I know it’s pointless to tell you to stop wallowing, but I’m going to do so anyway.” He stood up, back straight. “You did nothing that I could not have stopped, if I so wished it.” He blinked, clearly uncomfortable talking about it. Then he gave a brisk nod and walked out. Lestrade stared after him, dread settling into the pit of his stomach as he heard his front door open and close.

 

 


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

Guilt can be an ugly, debilitating thing. It can gnaw on your very soul, turning every moment of your life to agony, until you simply can’t take it anymore and do something drastic.

Lestrade had gotten to that point long ago, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. The fact that Sherlock was acting completely indifferent to...everything, did nothing to assuage his churning feelings. Every time they were in the same room together, his hands would shake and he could barely concentrate, regularly blaming his lack of focus on migraines.

Sherlock sat in his office, hands steepled in contemplation, his eyes focused on something only he could see. Lestrade rifled through files, notes, photos. A murder case had them both perplexed and while it should have given him a respite from his constant guilt, his proximity to Sherlock had quite the opposite effect.

He couldn’t concentrate. Not on the case anyway. His mind refused to work properly, everything was a jumble of nonsense. He delayed with answering almost every question Sherlock had for him, not for lack of insight, but because he was so preoccupied he had to remember what Sherlock had just asked him. He was starting to get looks. Sidelong glances. Next would come the questions.

But two weeks of Sherlock pretending Lestrade hadn’t (basically) assaulted him in the shower was starting to hinder his daily routine. His job, his personal life, they were starting to suffer and everyone else was noticing. Well, almost everyone.

“Did the dental records reveal anything significant?” Sherlock suddenly asked, throwing Lestrade out of his depressing reverie.

He blinked owlishly at the question. “Um, no, nothing to indicate poisoning anyway.”

Sherlock stared at him a beat longer. Then, “Hmm.” He turned his head away, his eyes losing focus once more. Lestrade’s phone chimed. Thinking it might be about the case, he went to check it out.

      _I want a divorce. I’m sorry._

He stared down at the screen, at the words that managed to make him forget all about his Sherlock problems, if only for a moment. His heart pounded as his thumb hovered over the screen.

“What is it?”

Lestrade sucked in a breath, glancing up at Sherlock. Then he stormed out. He marched past colleagues sending him puzzled glances, to the nearest loo, then shut himself inside. He looked down at his phone again, as if the words might mean something different the second time around.

_I want a divorce. I’m sorry._

Christ. “Fuck.” He stuffed the phone inside his pocket and turned on the tap, spraying his face, and half his shirt with water. His heart was battering around in his chest, his hands shaking as he wiped his face dry.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror, trying to make sense of his feelings. He wasn’t quite sure why he had reacted the way he had to the news. It wasn’t as if it was truly a surprise. He couldn't remember the last time he was in the same room with Deb. She didn’t even really call anymore. He had spurred all requests for reconciliation, and now his wife was asking for a divorce.

He asked for this. Deep down, he knew ignoring the situation would result in exactly this. He didn’t love her. Not anymore. Not for a very long time. He couldn’t even remember a time when he did find her attractive as a person, as a partner. That wasn’t why this was upsetting him so.

It was because he had failed at something. His marriage had floundered, just another all too common statistic. Could he have stopped it? Maybe. Maybe if he tried really hard to give a shit. But no, that would have required too much effort. Subconsciously, he thought things would remain as they were without further complications.

And now he was going to be served with divorce papers. It was humiliating. This failure.

_More humiliating than your own wife cheating on you for years?_

He stared into the mirror as if searching for an answer. Finding none, he sighed and at least made sure he looked presentable. Then he went back to his office.

He stepped inside and shut his door. Sherlock still sat in the chair, though not in the state Lestrade left him. He narrowed his eyes and glanced up and down at Lestrade, scrounging for clues. Fuck if Lestrade cared. He went back around to his desk and picked up the pile of papers he was previously looking through.

Silence reigned and thankfully Sherlock didn’t comment on anything. After a few more minutes of pointless searching, Sherlock announced that he needed to go. Lestrade merely nodded in farewell, missing the pointed look Sherlock threw him.

Donovan came in after that, a concerned expression on her face.

“Everything alright, sir?”

“Fine,” he responded automatically, not bothering to glance up at her.

She stood silently a moment longer before departing. Lestrade closed his eyes and prayed for the day to end already.

***

He told the cabbie to wait for him as he bounded out and straight into the liquor store. It was a mistake, he knew. He cursed himself as he paid for the bourbon and the Stoli, holding them tightly in his grip as he got back inside the cab. He found he didn’t care. He was going to get positively pissed, actually glad to have a later shift tomorrow.

Darkness greeted him as he stepped onto the kerb. He paid his fare and practically dashed inside. He rounded the corner, making his way up the stairs to his landing. The stairwell was dimly lit, and his heart all but seized as he was nearly frightened out of his wits. Stopping short, he paused to stare at the figure sitting serenely at the top of the stairs.

“Are you kidding me?” He literally pushed Sherlock aside as he climbed the last couple of steps to reach his door. He put his key in.

“I’m really not in the mood for this tonight, Sherlock.” He swung the door open, not bothering to slam it shut as he knew Sherlock was directly behind him. He placed his purchases on the kitchen table, shrugging off his jacket. He wanted Sherlock to leave so he could crack open a bottle. He wanted to be alone so he could-.

“Lestrade.”

He sighed, clearly not going to get anything he wanted tonight. He turned around, a resigned, if not annoyed sigh falling from his lips.

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?” He watched as Sherlock’s eyes glanced right over to the alcohol bottles, lips pursing in clear displeasure. Lestrade glared, turning around to reach for one.

“Don’t,” Sherlock’s voice dared to interject. Lestrade ignored him, grabbing the bourbon.

“Go away, Sherlock. I told you I wasn’t in the mood.”

“She’s not worth this.”

Lestrade paused, not entirely surprised Sherlock had it all figured out. God, Mycroft probably told him himself after hacking into Lestrade’s mobile. It wasn’t beneath either of them.

“Stay out of it, Sherlock. I’m telling you nicely.”

Sherlock stood straighter, hands forever in his coat pockets. Cheeks flushed, hair mussed. God, he’d almost forgotten his Sherlock problem. He glanced down at the bottle in his hand. He could take care of all his problems, at least for tonight.

“Is this your plan then? To drink yourself into a stupor?”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, mouth going thin. “You’re one to talk” he said with venom.

Sherlock’s eyes turned cool, his arrogance showing through. Perfect. This, Lestrade could deal with.

“Now kindly leave,” he said with impatience. Then he paused, contemplating. “Or, you can join me. It’s always more fun with a partner.”

Sherlock looked on in distaste. “I don’t drink.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Oh I’d forgotten. You prefer poisoning your body through other methods. Sorry, you’ll have to go downtown for that, I’m afraid. But I’m sure it’s not too late if you hurry on over there,” he finished, his attempt to remove Sherlock from the premises going horribly wrong as Sherlock’s face turned ashen with disbelief.

Lestrade’s body chilled as his mind finally caught up with what he’d just said, his gut roiling in disgust. He rubbed at his eyes, aghast at the fact that he basically just told Sherlock to go out and get drugs, just so he could finally be alone to get drunk.

The sigh that resonated was the only sound in the flat. He put down the bottle and looked at Sherlock. The indifferent demeanor could fool anyone, even Lestrade- If this was three years ago. But he knew him too damn well.

“Sorry. Fuck. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean a word of that. I’m fucking fuming and-” He blew out his breath through his teeth, shaking his head in anger. “I’m just fucking tired of everything. I’m really trying not to take it out on you. It’s just you’re here and I can’t even look at you without remembering-” and he really did not want to start that up now of all times, but he couldn’t ignore that Sherlock was a constant reminder of what he did.

And it appeared Sherlock remembered that night too, for a sudden dark gleam lit up his eyes, transforming his entire face. It stopped Lestrade’s heart because the look was not one of a tormented man, haunted by the memory. It was one of a man reveling in that memory. Re-living every second with a slow-forming, lascivious smirk, turning Lestrade’s blood to a boil.

Oh my god. He was so terribly wrong.

“You...you enjoyed it,” he said in wide-eyed wonderment.

“I enjoy a great many things,” Sherlock said with a casual tilt of his head, but his eyes never changed. They narrowed subtly with each passing second, as if waiting for Lestrade. To do what? It couldn’t be what Lestrade was thinking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“For God’s sake,” he exclaimed with an exasperated whisper. Then he proceeded to remove his coat, chucking it towards the nearest chair. Then he actually placed his hands on his hips, his brows arching.

Lestrade’s mouth dropped open. “Sherlock,” he choked on the name. “I can’t,” he ground out, shaking his head. Sherlock’s eyes grew cold.

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you, Inspector.” He advanced on Lestrade, stopping within a few inches of the older man, eyes gleaming with a purpose.

Lestrade withered under that gaze, his resolve nearly gone. “This is insane,” he said. “We can’t just keep-”

“It’s a simple question, Lestrade,” Sherlock interjected, his breath ghosting across Lestrade’s face. He swallowed, his breathing getting shallow.

“Then the answer will always be yes.”

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered, his eyes darkening. Lestrade reached up, his fingers resting on Sherlock’s long neck, running them along the pale skin, feeling the slightest hint of stubble as his fingertips almost touched his jaw. Then he pressed his palm forward and squeezed, his whole hand wrapping around the column of flesh. He watched as Sherlock’s eyes grew nearly black with desire.

He squeezed tighter, tendons flexing under his grip, pulse erratic where his fingers pressed. And still Sherlock wasn’t stopping him, his arms limp against his sides. With his free hand he reached down and pressed against Sherlock’s trousers, watched as those eyes closed shut against the light touch.

His whole body ached for this. And how could he refuse when Sherlock was so blatantly throwing himself at him? It seemed impossible and more so improbable that Sherlock would be so willing to let Lestrade do...whatever. What was in it for Sherlock? He didn’t need this. He’d made that plain for as long as Lestrade had known him. Sex was nothing to him, in fact it was more of a hinderance than anything. So despite the thundering of his heart and the achiness he felt below his belt he was still questioning motives.

He forced himself to think. Not an easy task when thrust into a situation he currently found himself in. Also, he was sure Sherlock would notice and get annoyed. He tried to slow his pulse and use his brain.

Twice now Sherlock had come to him of his own accord. Once when Lestrade’s mother died and now again because...oh. Oh. Jesus, Sherlock knew what he wanted even before he did. He was depressed over his mum, and Sherlock was there, making him forget, allowing Lestrade to consume him, to obliterate him because he knew it was what he needed. And now here he was again, trying in his own way, to help Lestrade.

Sherlock knew he wasn’t taking the news of the divorce well, and he knew what Lestrade would do. Go straight for the booz. It should infuriate him, how well the young detective could read him. But his heart was deeply touched. Sherlock cared. On some level that the younger man would probably never admit to, he cared for Lestrade. Cared enough to offer himself just so Lestrade would bypass the bottle.

He let go of his neck, his breathing ragged. He held onto Sherlock’s arm, almost afraid to let go. Four times now Sherlock had come to him. Twice, because he was about to fall hard and needed Lestrade to help him. And twice because he knew it was Lestrade that needed a cushion for the fall.

He swallowed hard, lowering his head so Sherlock wouldn’t see what he knew was plain to see. He didn’t want to bring emotion into this. Caring did not automatically equate to a deeper level of feeling. Sherlock was not here for that. He had to keep telling himself that.

He brought his arms up, running his fingers through Sherlock’s long inky hair, fingers snarling through soft curls. He tugged, eliciting a faint hiss from the other man.

“I’m not feeling rather gentle tonight, Sher,” he warned, his eyes locking with Sherlock’s.

He saw a ghost of a smile on those full lips and that was all he needed or wanted to see. He tugged a bit harder, essentially closing the gap between them. He attacked Sherlock’s mouth, his hands never stopping their ministrations. He knew Sherlock loved getting his scalp massaged. A delicious flush was forming on the pale skin and he moved from his mouth to the nape of his neck, inhaling Sherlock like a drug. And for the next hour he was thrown into oblivion, a peaceful calm settling over him.

***

He watched Sherlock get dressed, hiding his disappointment behind a lit cigarette. It shouldn't come as a surprise, and it didn’t, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be somewhat disappointed. He inhaled deeply, his eyes on Sherlock’s lean back, watching the muscles flex as he leisurely dressed. A finally tuss of his hair and he turned around, hands now on fixing his belt.

Lestrade was in no rush to get dressed himself, seeing as he was at home, and already in bed. It wasn’t terribly late but aside from a shower, he had nothing on. He offered the fag to Sherlock, who took it, inhaling once before passing it back.

He could ask, he knew. _Stay the night?_ He could just ask him and be done with it. But he was too much of a coward to hear the answer. So he stayed put as Sherlock tied his laces and found his scattered possessions on the floor, stuffing them into his pockets.

He tried to think of something to say that wasn’t awkward or obvious, but nothing came to mind. Sherlock grimaced as he knelt down low to pick up his fallen pen and an apology was on the tip of his tongue but he didn’t really think Sherlock would appreciate it.

“Alright?” he said instead.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied with his customary derisive tone. He finished primping himself, looking remarkably put together and obscenely attractive. It made Lestrade want to throw him back down and go for round two. Instead, he finished smoking, snuffing the burnt out cigarette on the ashtray next to his bed, and snuggled deeper into the pillows.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What time is your shift tomorrow?”

Lestrade sighed. “Was planning on getting there for two. Might come in earlier to work on that case file.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

Lestrade nodded. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he said softly. Sherlock paused, eyeing Lestrade warily for a moment. Then he jerked his head once, and sauntered out.

“Goodnight.”

Despite his departure, Lestrade felt a smile tugging on his lip.

***

Their arrangement- for that was what Lestrade referred to it as- went on thus for months. When Lestrade was having a particularly rough day-or week- he’d seek out Sherlock and the younger man always knew what he needed without having to utter a word. And when Sherlock got into one of his funks he would break into his flat and wait for him, eyes bright with need, and Lestrade would take care of him in the only way Sherlock allowed.

Their coupling was almost always harried, like their lives depended on it, bursting with volatile energy. Sherlock would claw and cling to him in a fevered pitch, his body burning with repressed need. It was simple, carnal desire that bound them. Lestrade topped every single time. It was blissful and he wasn’t sure if he was being selfish but Sherlock never complained nor indicated that he wished for a change.

Most of those situations were spur of the moment and never planned so each time felt raw and sublime, Lestrade burning the imagery into his mind to reminisce later. And since it was quite common for them to go months before falling into bed once more, each time was a unique experience, one he hoped continued, but secretly wished to further along.

Their professional relationship also went on, but in a more routine fashion. Word was spreading about Sherlock’s skills and so he was often out and about solving crimes in various countries and settings. But nothing held his interest like London and all its lecherous goings on. Lestrade secretly revelled in the moments when he was stumped and had to call in Sherlock, annoying his entire team.

Sherlock was still contemptuous, and arrogant and positively rude and obnoxious. He cut down everyone he met to pieces and treated people generally like rubbish. It irked Lestrade to no end, no matter what their past. Sherlock would always be Sherlock. It was a nice sort of routine, one he was loathed to admit he was accustomed to.

That is, until the day that routine was broken by one John Watson.

 

 


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS here on out for Seasons 1-3...

Lestrade was many things when it came to Sherlock. Patient, accepting, complacent, even understanding-to a point. But one thing he was not, has never been and never wants to feel again, is jealous.

John Watson was not particularly an interesting man, at first glance. He was somewhat short, very plain in appearance, with an agreeable face, if you admired that sort of thing. He seemed cordial enough, even friendly, and there was nothing that bespoke of mystery or intrigue. So for the life of him, Lestrade had no fucking clue what he was doing with Sherlock.

The first time he spotted them together was at a crime scene. A most peculiar case had the entire Yard flummoxed, leading Lestrade as usual to accept Sherlock’s insight. What he did not expect was his companion that evening. His _assistant_ , he called him. He’d known Sherlock for years and not once did he ever hint at the idea of needing-let alone wanting- an assistant.

It curdled his insides when he found out later that John was in fact living with Sherlock, recently as such, and that he was suddenly privileged enough to accompany Sherlock to crime scenes. Lestrade almost didn’t allow it, save for the thought of the impending argument he would certainly be privy to the next day. Even Lestrade could see that there was something about John that intrigued Sherlock. And the thought destroyed him.

As nice as it was to see Sherlock branching out into friendship, he was jealous of this newfound...whatever, and he hated that feeling. Thinking back, he realized he wasn’t even jealous when he found out his wife was cheating on him-numerous times. He was livid, yes, and confused, but he never felt that deep pain of rejection that sits in your gut, growing with each passing day.

He tried to ignore it, telling himself he was overreacting, telling himself that maybe John was a good friend to Sherlock, telling himself that John really was simply assisting him. Telling himself that it didn’t bother him. And finally, when none of that worked, he told himself that it didn’t even matter because it wasn’t like he and Sherlock were in a relationship. They didn’t have an understanding; they didn’t really have anything. They were two grown men that sometimes fell into bed together. And that was it.

It made him feel worse. To think that in the end, he really did mean nothing to Sherlock. Well maybe not nothing, but close enough that it didn’t bother Sherlock to move on to something better. Something right under his nose.

He blamed himself entirely. It was him that suggested Sherlock find a flatmate after hearing the constant complaints regarding having to utilize Mycroft’s assistance to pay the rent when he had a lull between cases. At first Sherlock had scoffed at the notion of living with another individual, but in the end he agreed that the benefits might make it tolerable- _if_ someone were willing to cohabit with him. In the end it was apparently a match made in heaven thanks to Mike Stamford, one of the doctors at Bart’s that Sherlock could actually stand to speak a few words to.

Lestrade had both Sherlock and John to thank for solving the murder/suicide case, even after the odd conclusion that included poisoned pills and a dead suspect. And the rush of euphoria that they usually got after a case ended well was shared between Sherlock and John, much to Lestrade’s disappointment. He tapped it down well though, threatening Sherlock will all sorts of nonsense to get his detailed report, and watched them both walk off into the distance. He’d never felt more alone.

It was preposterous, he knew. He was a grown man, not some love-sick teenager pining for a boy he couldn’t have. It was juvenile, and ridiculous and depressing.

He didn’t talk to Sherlock about John. When they met up, he didn’t utter a word, wondering if Sherlock would say something himself. But aside from one time when he mentioned how nice it was that someone was around to do the shopping and hoovering, he never let on what was going on at Baker Street. He wasn’t sure if he should feel glad or anxious about that.

“You could have been killed.”

They were sitting in Lestrade’s office, sharing some fish and chips and (finally) going over Sherlock’s report of the events from the cabbie murder case. He watched as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I’m serious, Sherlock. I’m not quite sure you wouldn’t have taken that pill if that shot didn’t go through that window.”

“I’m not an idiot, Lestrade. I do know a thing or two about chemistry. I knew what I was doing.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

“And I’m not an idiot either, Sherlock.” He put down his lunch. “I know it was John Watson that fired that shot.”

Sherlock didn’t even bat a lash. Lestrade sighed. “Look, if I wanted to prosecute, I would have done so already. It’s been almost three weeks, and I’m not going to do anything. As far as I can tell he saved your life that night so I should be eternally grateful for it,” he finished.

“Was that sarcasm?” Sherlock said with a raised brow and the smallest twinge of his lip.

“Shut it.” He picked up a chip. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know John has an unregistered firearm. Just as long as I don’t have to see it, got it?”

“I will be sure to pass along the message to John,” Sherlock replied acerbically. Lestrade pursed his lips and sighed.

“So Deb’s taking her sweet time getting those divorce papers over to me,” He suddenly stated, not even knowing why he was telling Sherlock.

The younger man blinked as if not sure what to do with that information.

“Oh?” he finally uttered as Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Nevermind. Just making conversation.” He smirked. “I know how much you love chatting.”

Sherlock followed suit with a wry smirk of his own and for a moment Lestrade could pretend that nothing had changed.

They finished their lunch in companionable silence, and the name John Watson never passed Sherlock’s lips again, leaving Lestrade feeling like it was just like any other day, pre-John.

***

As the weeks progressed, and the seasons changed, so did Sherlock. John accompanied him on nearly every case that Lestrade called them on and the older detective pretty much gave up hope that their duo was just a passing experiment.

In truth, they complimented each other. Whilst Sherlock was rude and arrogant, John was congenial and understanding. When Sherlock got out of line, John merely had to send him a look his way. John was actually helpful as well when it came to medical knowledge, and given his background, it was with a reluctant air that Lestrade allowed the both of them into his crime scenes.

Sherlock listened to John. He actually looked for his opinion, his insight. He let John deal with the mundane, boring things like talking to people, and gathering information. John did not seem to mind playing errand boy, even after he got a job at a local clinic. He accompanied Sherlock whenever he got a free moment and more than once Sherlock actually refused to proceed without John’s assistance. It seemed that John had more influence over Sherlock than Lestrade initially thought. It was a frightening concept.

Sherlock’s visits to Lestrade’s flat became few in between. Lestrade would almost welcome a random break-in, hopeful for a few moments of alone time with Sherlock. It wasn’t just the sex. He actually missed Sherlock. He missed what John Watson was privy to every day.

He missed the complaining, and the random ramblings late into the night. He missed the violin playing and the click click of his laptop keys going at lightening speed. He missed the steel of those eyes piercing his soul, pinning him in place. He missed the idea of Sherlock as much as he missed Sherlock himself. And as the months passed, the thought of actually losing Sherlock forever turned him to ice.

He tried to hate John. He was ashamed to admit it but the thought had some appeal. It would be easier to deal with him if he despised his guts. But the idea proved futile, for John was impossible to ignore. He made every effort to converse with Lestrade, not out of need but genuine curiosity. He threw Lestrade apologetic looks when Sherlock was being particularly impossible and they even had a laugh about Mycroft one random day.

In the end, Lestrade could no more hate John than he could Sherlock. They complimented each other too much. They were meant to meet. Lestrade was resigned to fade away into the deep recesses of Sherlock’s mind, and that was being hopeful. He was being melodramatic, and he knew it.

In the end it took a nutter and a bomb strapped to John Watson for Lestrade to come to terms with everything. The event had jarred Sherlock, his eyes glancing over at John when he thought no one would notice during his initial report with Lestrade. He was a bundle of nervous energy and it was quite obvious he was loath to leave John’s side.

“He’s fine, Sherlock,” Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock blinked at him like he was stupid. “I know he’s fine. Of course he’s fine.”

Lestrade sighed. “Let’s go over it again. So you actually met Moriarty?”

A sneer crossed Sherlock’s face, a flicker of self-doubt. “Yes,” he spat.”And not for the first time.”

He proceeded to ramble on about their initial meeting at Bart’s when Jim Moriarty was moonlighting as Molly’s boyfriend. “I should have realized…” he trailed off, his eyes far away and stony.

Lestrade halted his inquisitions. “We’ll discuss this further. For now, why don’t you take John home since he’s refusing to go to the hospital.”

Sherlock nodded mutely, his eyes strained and exhausted. And once again Lestrade had to watch them walk away together. But this time it wasn’t resentment he was feeling. This time, something had changed. Something was stirring. Whoever this Moriarty character claimed to be, it was serious shit, and for once Lestrade was glad Sherlock had someone at his back day and night.

While Lestrade was left to deal with the aftermath of the madman Moriarty, Sherlock was apparently busy with other endeavors. It wasn’t until much later that he discovered what exactly was keeping Sherlock’s interest.

***

Irene Adler. The name alone reduced men to whimpering idiots, rumour had it. Everyone at the Yard had heard that name. Seen that face. But never did Lestrade suspect that Sherlock would get embroiled with that. It was preposterous.

Even after finding out that she was part of a private case, Lestrade couldn’t really imagine it. It wasn’t just jealousy, not that time. Sherlock would never go for that. True, the man never actually admitted he was exclusively gay, but Lestrade could never picture Sherlock as the type of person that would be willing to submit to anyone. Least of all her.

It wasn’t until he got a call from John did his heart go plummeting.

“What do you mean he’s in mourning? he asked incredulously over his morning coffee. He heard John sigh on the other end.

“I’ve never seen him like this, Greg. He’s being...odd. He’s more quiet, he’s forever playing depressing music on that damned violin of his. He won’t even talk about her. He’s just...lost.”

Lestrade sat upright in his chair. Two things crossed his mind simultaneously. One, John was talking about Sherlock as if he were looking after his heartbroken friend, not as a jealous lover griping about some mistress. And two, the fact that Sherlock was actually heartbroken. The man usually went out of his way to deny the fact that he even had a heart. There was nothing more boring to him than talking of love, or feelings of any kind. There had to be another explanation. Before he could figure anything out, John started up again.

“I thought, maybe you could talk to him.”

Lestrade froze. “Me? Why would Sherlock talk to me?” he said, not quite sure he mastered his quizzical voice.

“Because he respects you. He’ll listen to you. You’ve known him much longer than I have. Surely you’ve got some insight that everyone else has missed.”

Lestrade’s heart clenched uncomfortably. “I don’t know, John. Sherlock’s very private. Maybe he just needs some time.”

Another sigh. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just...so unlike him. I mean, you know what he’s like? It’s times like this I realize I barely know the guy. He won’t talk about his past. And Mycroft even eluded he’s never-” He broke off, inhaling, like he never meant to go on that far.

“What did Mycroft say about him?” He was on guard now, ready for anything. After a moment’s hesitation, John went on, albeit warily.

“He just said that...he basically implied that- Sherlock’s never been with anyone. Intimately.”

Lestrade held his breath. “Oh,” he said, just a flutter of air. “Well, it um isn’t really any of Mycroft’s business what goes on in Sherlock’s private life.”

“Yeah, oh I know it. But you know Mycroft. So I dunno, maybe he’s right. I mean, not like Sherlock’s revealed anything to me about...any of that. It’s so hard to place him. I couldn’t tell you if he prefered women or men, or both. Or neither. Sherlock doesn’t really think like that. He doesn’t concern himself with the physical, he said so as much first day I met him. At first I found it...odd. But now, after all this time, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true. I mean, I’m a doctor and shouldn’t be surprised by anything. I guess I’ve just never met a man who didn’t want to...you know.”

Lestrade gaped as he stared ahead, hand clamped tightly to his phone. He swallowed, unable to form words.

“Greg?”

He started, his mouth gone dry. “Oh sorry, I’m here, just busy with files. Sorry, I’m listening. I hear you. I- yea, it’s Sherlock, what can you say?”

He heard a soft laugh. “Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry to be calling you up like this at work. I was just worried is all.”

“No, it’s fine, really. I appreciate the call. I can talk to Sherlock, next time I see him.”

“Thanks, Greg. You’re a good friend to him.”

They hung up, Lestrade’s hand shaking as he placed his mobile on his desk. He felt a bit ill and a migraine was creeping up on him. He sat forward, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

He could not believe that conversation just transpired. John all but admitted there was nothing going on between him and Sherlock. He could have been lying but to what end? That was not the purpose of his call. He called because he was disconcerted and he thought Lestrade could help. But even he was out of his depth here, for if Sherlock really was mourning the Adler woman, how could he be expected to comfort him when jealousy was slowly creeping back up?

The horrible fact that she was dead did nothing to staunch that feeling. Right now, Sherlock was hurting and Lestrade hated knowing that. Helping Sherlock was always his objective, this deep rooted need to fix whatever was ailing the younger man. He was a horrible person if he sat by and watched Sherlock fall apart.

He didn’t know what he could do to help or what words to say to someone like Sherlock who loathed sentiment in any form, but he vowed to speak with him.

He never got that chance because just after New Year’s he got a text from John.

_She’s alive. Adler. I don’t even have the words to express my anger right now. She faked her death! Who the hell does that?!_

Lestrade stared and stared at the strange words until his lungs protested from lack of breathing. He gulped in some air and responded.

      _I’m confused. Irene Adler is alive?_

_Yes. I’ve seen her. Maybe 3 hours ago. I still haven’t had time to process it._

      _How did Sherlock take the news?_

_Hard to say. I haven’t talked to him since. But he saw her. He knows. I’m aimlessly walking because I don’t know what to do or say to him._

      _Right. Thanks for info._

Less than an hour later he got a phone call from Sherlock himself, calmly explaining about some break in at their flat and an injured American.

He didn’t get a chance to talk with Sherlock, as he was attending to a petrified Mrs. Hudson and an incredulous John. He wasn’t about to bring Adler up at a time like that so he promised to follow up with everyone, and went home.

***

Lestrade’s gaze was unfocused as he stared out his darkened window, London twinkling in the distance. He couldn’t sleep. His body felt tired and sore but his mind wouldn’t shut down. He vaguely wondered if that was how Sherlock’s mind operated every day. He shuddered at the thought, not wishing that on anyone.

It was too cold for a late night walk but he was going restless doing absolutely nothing. He glanced over at the thick, unopened envelope on his table, addressed from his wife’s lawyer. Sighing, he looked away.  Making up his mind, he picked up his mobile and dialed Sherlock. He was going to text instead but it wasn’t nearly personal enough for what he wanted to discuss.

Surprisingly, Sherlock picked up.

“Lestrade.”

“Hey, Sher,” he replied, the nickname automatically passing his lips, making him inwardly cringe. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No. I wasn’t sleeping,” the detached voice said, making Lestrade frown at the lack of personality behind it.

“How is Mrs. Hudson? She looked really upset before.”

A huff of breath. A smile perhaps? “She’s fine. She’s always fine.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused and the quiet resumed.

“Lestrade?”

“Yea?”

A sigh, this time exasperated. “You called for a reason. One I can guess, so kindly get it over with.”

This time Lestrade sighed. “Look, I know you got a bit of a shock today. I just wanted to find out...how you were…”

“Does John keep you apprised of things now?” There was no rebuke in his tone, just a quiet acceptance.

“He’s worried, is all. He’s not used to seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” A pause. “Oh _god_ … he honestly thinks- and you! How could you think-” he broke off, clearly agitated.

Lestrade didn’t say a word, hoping Sherlock might continue and hoping he’d be proven wrong.

“Irene Adler was nothing more than a pleasant diversion to pass the time. She wasn’t boring. But if you think I trust her for even a second, then you don’t know me quite as well as I thought you did.”

The line went silent then, leaving Lestrade to curse at the device in his hand. He heaved a sigh, dropping his mobile on the nearest surface and went to bed. Despite the constant stream of insecurities, he soon fell asleep.

He didn’t see Sherlock again until almost a week later. Turned out something big had happened that even he didn’t care to discuss. He sat solemnly in his customary leather chair as Lestrade sipped on the tea that John made him. He had brought over a new file he wanted Sherlock to look over but the man was showing no interest in it.

John kept throwing Lestrade looks that he was apparently meant to interpret but was at a loss to their meaning. He shrugged at John, not knowing what was going on. He was just about to ask when Sherlock decided to make his appearance known.

“New cologne, Lestrade?”

The older man frowned at the odd segue, then remembered it was Sherlock after all.

“Uh yea. Old one ran out, figured I’d give this a go. Armani, I think.”

“It’s terrible,” Sherlock said with a sniff in the air. “The Hugo Boss was better.”

Lestrade blinked, not knowing how to respond to that with John in the room. He should be flattered that Sherlock even knew which brand of cologne he used, but again, it _was_ Sherlock and his nose was keener than a bloodhound's.

“Um, right, thanks I s’pose. But like I said, I ran out and figured I’d try something new.” He picked up the file, opening it up on his lap.

“There was nothing wrong with the old one,” Sherlock stated quietly, not looking at him, and Lestrade realized he had no idea if Sherlock was talking of cologne anymore. He blinked, suddenly feeling warm and uncomfortable.

“Sherlock, honestly. Not everyone has the same tastes as you,” replied John with a slight shake of his head. Lestrade coughed and, shutting the file, threw it at Sherlock. It landed in his lap and after a heavy sigh, the younger man opened it.

“Looks boring,” he announced after five seconds.

“It’s not, I promise. Hey, I have to go but I’ll give you a call later. Tell me what you think?”

“I just did.”

“See you, John,” Lestrade said, ignoring Sherlock.

“Yeah, see you! Thanks for dropping that off, Greg.”

He texted John as soon as he got to work.

      _What’s going on? What happened with Adler??_

_She’s gone. Sherlock cracked her code. He beat her game and she left._

      _Is he upset by it?_

_No. He seemed...vindicated. I wasn’t there when it happened but when I asked he just mumbled something about love and foolish and nonsense. I didn’t ask further. He still thinks about her though. I can tell. Still I think it’s best she’s gone._

Lestrade sighed, and tried to think of a response. John added more to his message.

      _Sorry he was so aloof today. He gets like that. He goes through these stages sometimes._

Lestrade wanted to say, _I know_. He knew things about Sherlock that most did not, and never will. He’s seen Sherlock at his lowest, and he’s seen him soar with wonder. But all that felt forever ago, and suddenly he wondered if John saw him in a different light. Did they joke together? Dine together? Did Sherlock pour his deepest fears and desires to John?

He didn’t think so, but just the possibility of it sent him reeling. It wasn’t right to feel this envious. Sherlock and John were friends. They had every right to do as they pleased. They lived together. They saw each other every day. They had to be close and Lestrade had to be okay with that. His mind agreed readily, but his heart clenched painfully.

So he responded: _It’s fine. I get it. Thanks for the info._

He felt like shit after chatting with John. The simple fact was, Sherlock and John were what he once thought he and Sherlock were. Maybe closer. What was he to Sherlock now? The thought constantly raced around in his head, consuming him. It was childish to think like that but he couldn’t help it, not when he saw how chummy John was with Sherlock. How easily their friendship evolved.

And what would their future hold? Sherlock already said he had no interest in Adler, which could mean nothing, or it could mean everything. He saw right through her.  She meant nothing to him, at least nothing that could tempt Sherlock into a relationship. He scoffed at the thought.

But John. John was different. On the outside he presented himself as plain, and level-headed. A good guy to have around. But what Sherlock saw in him ran deeper. Soldier, doctor, friend, partner. He already assisted Sherlock with all his cases. How much longer before their relationship progressed further? He didn’t want to dwell on that.

He had to remind himself that the stolen moments he had with Sherlock were just that- moments in time that amounted to nothing, really. In the grand scheme of things, what they had did not compare to what Sherlock and John could have in the future. Deep down he knew it was true and that particular thought sent him straight for the liquor cabinet, loathing himself with every sip he took, but reveling in the sweet burn down his throat and the haziness of his mind. It was bliss, if only temporarily.

 

 


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to adjust the timeline slightly for Hounds of Baskerville to make this chapter work, if anyone notices... Also, I just wanted to warn people of spoilers. but I like to assume everyone has seen the series by now :)  
> Adult content in this chapter.

Blissful solitude. There was a time it would be welcome, that selfish need to get the fuck away from everyone and everything and forget the problems of the world, if only for a little while. He used to yearn for it like nothing else. Even now, he thought it was what he wanted.

The sea air was invigorating, and splendid, and perfect. The sun was warm and dazzling whether it was rising or fading away. In Brighton, it didn’t matter. Beauty could be found all around.

Lestrade never had any issues letting go of his problems, not in such a place. It was his hideaway, a place where nothing could reach him. He lived to disappear there.

A sigh passed his lips and a crease formed on his brow as he stared off into nothingness. Three days of solitude, with perfect weather and otherwise ideal conditions. He could hardly remember it working out so well. And yet his heart was not in it. Not really.

He slipped away from work, with his acquired time off and got on the train hoping his mini holiday might ease that terrible ache in his chest. Either that or he really needed to see his doctor. His family vacation home had never felt more inviting, memories flooding him as soon as he stepped through the door. It was always the way.

Denim, tees and trainers. That’s all he needed. Suits were for work and he wanted nothing to do with that in Brighton. Trunks for swimming, no matter that the water was still freezing. A beach chair and some nice beer.

But the simple fact remained that he couldn’t just relax and forget everything. Forget Sherlock. It was impossible. The further away he was, the more he thought of him, and with work no longer there to distract him, his mind had the freedom to roam. All in all it was not the best of holidays.

That evening he received a call from Mycroft. Surprised and slightly perturbed, he answered.

“Mycroft.”

“Hello to you too, Inspector. I do so apologize for interrupting your well-earned holiday, but I have a pressing matter I’d like for you to address.”

Lestrade closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’m assuming this has to do with Sherlock? You wouldn’t be calling me otherwise.”

“Always so astute, Inspector. Indeed. My brother and the good doctor have taken a case in Dartmoor and I am not entirely too comfortable with their current predicament.” 

Lestrade frowned. “What might that be?”

“Let’s just say they’ve already gotten up to something highly illegal and since I am tied up with work-”

“You want me to go to Dartmoor and spy on your brother.” It wasn’t even a question, nor was he surprised by any part of Mycroft’s speech.

“Spy is such a harsh word, Inspector. I prefer, ‘assist’.”

“Mmm, right. And what do I get out of all this?”

“Double compensation for your wasted holiday, full accommodations at the inn Sherlock and John are staying at, and all meals.”

Lestrade thought it over. He could think of a million reasons to say no but it never actually crossed his mind to do so. Plus, the money was always a bonus.

He sighed. “Fine. But I want first class train tickets.”

He heard a mirrored sigh follow. “Fine. We are in agreement then. Keep an eye on Sherlock and make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish. You will receive an email with your ticket and accommodation information. A car will pick you up at the station and take you to the inn. If you have any concerns, contact me immediately.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. Leave it to Mycroft to be overdramatic. “Yep, thanks.” He hung up and went to pack his things.

***

The trip was uneventful and quicker than he thought. He was just getting used to the extra legroom when they were announcing their arrival. It was just past noontime when he arrived at the inn. It was a quaint sort of place, clean and well-maintained. He dropped his bags off at his room and went in search of Sherlock and John.

He found them in the giftshop, or he should say, Sherlock found him. He did not seem pleased to see him at all, calling him out instantly on his holiday bluff and muttering dark things about Mycroft under his breath.

_Handler_ he called him! Well it was mostly true, hence the reason Mycroft sent him and nobody else. John actually looked happy to see him and mentioned Sherlock was as well.

“Secretly pleased,” he amended with a smile. “And does he really not know your name by now?”

Lestrade huffed a laugh at Sherlock pretending he had no clue what his name was, and how _not_ true that was. Still, he kept it light for John. “He probably deleted it,” he said with a wink and followed Sherlock outside.

There was a certain oddness to the place, no doubt, and they actually recruited Lestrade’s help in figuring out what exactly was going on. Intrigued, he was more than happy to assist, having nothing pressing to do, aside from spying, which he failed at horribly.

Turned out there was a hound issue. A ‘demon’ hound the way he heard it. It was a mystery that he thought Sherlock would normally scoff at but certainly something clicked in his mind if he took the case all the way out there. He told John and Sherlock he would keep his eyes open as they went off to visit with their frightened client.

As twilight set in, Lestrade sent off a text to Sherlock, not having heard from him in hours. He sat in the small restaurant at the inn and peacefully devoured a delicious meat pie and drank some wonderful ale.

Receiving no response, he texted John instead. After a few minutes, he got his answer.

      _Going to the Hollow with Henry. Sherlock thinks it’s a good idea to revisit the site of the original incident. Not so sure myself… Don’t worry. Will keep Sherlock out of danger!_

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head. With nothing else to occupy him, he finished off his ale and decided to turn it, suddenly realizing how exhausted he was from his sudden trip.

***

The knocking woke him. Groggy, he glanced at the clock, noting the time. Nearly one in the morning. Cursing, he threw back the covers, annoyed at the interrupted sleep. He shivered slightly as the cool air hit his flesh. With bare feet he padded over to the door and opened it wide, already knowing who would be on the other side.

True, it was Sherlock standing there. But the normally cavalier detective with his customary no-nonsense air was missing. Instead, Lestrade was instantly alert after scanning the younger man’s face.

“Sherlock?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Can I come in?”

Frowning, Lestrade opened the door wider to let Sherlock pass, confused as to why Sherlock would even ask that rather than just pushing his way in, as was the norm.

The younger figure stood rigidly in the middle of the room and as Lestrade shut the door he realized instantly something was wrong. He flipped on the light switch, blinking at the sudden brightness.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?”

The young detective looked lost standing there, practically wringing his hands. His face was pale and his eyes were glossy and hard. Lestrade approached him, his concern rising.

“Sher?”

Sherlock’s lips parted, as if to speak, but nothing came out. A crease marred his forehead and he swallowed hard, avoiding Lestrade’s gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, flooring Lestrade. “You were sleeping, of course.” Another frown, much more pronounced this time.

Before Lestrade could follow up with anything, he realized he smelled alcohol on Sherlock’s breath, given the lack of distance between them. Now he was properly afraid.

“Sherlock. Have you been drinking?” Sherlock would surely chide him for stupidly stating the obvious, but it was so out of character given he’d barely ever seen Sherlock drink before, and it was worrying.

Bleak, stormy eyes finally met his. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Lestrade sucked in a breath. He grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and guided him to the edge of his bed.

“Sit,” he demanded. “Speak. And don’t get all weird on me now, Sherlock. You’re creeping me out enough.”

Sherlock sat, but immediately hung his head. With one hand he raked his fingers through his hair while the other clenched onto the edge of the bed. Lestrade stood over the younger man, his heart hammering loudly in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked again, gently.

He still couldn’t see his face but he heard the deep intake of breath and the shakiness as it passed through his parted lips.

“I saw something. I saw something that couldn’t possibly exist but I saw it all the same. I-”

He finally brought his head up and his eyes were wide and panicked. Lestrade had never seen that look before on that face and it startled him.

“What did you see?”

He watched as Sherlock shook his head back and forth. “John thinks I’m crazy.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Lestrade immediately chimed in, not knowing any of the details.

“He does. I told him and he didn’t believe me. He looked at me like I was mad.”

It clearly pained Sherlock to admit this for some reason and Lestrade’s heart clenched.

“John would follow you anywhere you asked, Sherlock. He trusts you implicitly. I’m sure that’s not the case.” He didn’t intend to place John on a pedestal but clearly this was bothering Sherlock and he hated seeing him like this.

“He left. I- well I suppose it was my fault he left. But, he didn’t look happy and-”

Lestrade put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John wouldn’t leave you,” he said quietly, knowing it to be true, and shamefully hating the fact. Sherlock looked up at him, a pained expression flickering across his face before it was gone in an instant.

By instinct, Lestrade brought his hands up to Sherlock’s head, his fingers slowly parting the dark locks, grazing the scalp just so. He didn’t intend to be so personal and certainly not when something was terribly troubling Sherlock, but he couldn’t help it.

Sherlock lowered his head again, clearly not minding in the least. He wanted to ask more questions of Sherlock, as he really got none of the actual story, save for the fact that John had left Sherlock after some sort of dispute. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but that would have to wait until Sherlock was able to properly form sentences.

He loved the feel of Sherlock’s hair. It was impossibly soft and thick and smelled exotic and perfect. He allowed his eyes to close, reveling in the sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time he touched Sherlock. And just like that the ache in his heart that had lingered for months had surged once again, stilling his fingers and practically freezing him in place.

Before he could ponder anything further, he felt warmth along his sides and realized with a sudden spike in desire that Sherlock’s arms had come up to rest on his hips, fingers grazing the soft material of his boxers.

“Don’t stop,” whispered Sherlock, his head low, face obscured by hair. Almost immediately Lestrade resumed the gentle ministrations along Sherlock’s scalp. His heart was racing, pulsating loudly in his ears.

“Sherlock,” he dared, never stopping his fingers. “Maybe John would be more suited…” He trailed off, not even knowing where he was going with that. Sherlock froze beneath his touch. Slowly, he lifted his head and, regretfully, Lestrade removed his hands.

The look Sherlock gave him was one of confusion and a hint of amusement. He arched a brow as he sat up straight and looked like his old self finally.

“Why would John be more suited?” he asked slowly, his eyes boring into Lestrade’s.

The older man felt his face flush. Oh God, this was his fault and now he was cornered. Stupid! Stupid. But now it was out in the open and maybe it was better to get it over with. He prepared himself for the worst.

“I just thought, perhaps...you...and John…” He couldn’t articulate anything properly he realized, but apparently it wasn’t necessary as a gleam of understanding lit up in Sherlock’s eyes, followed by a deep frown.

Lestrade felt like he was going to throw up but all Sherlock said was, “You’re an idiot, Lestrade,” and pressed his forehead up against Lestrade’s stomach, breathing in his scent.

Lestrade froze, not quite understanding. He brought his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders, gently prying him away.

“Sherlock.”

A deep, exasperated sigh followed as Sherlock slouched back, his eyes rolling to the ceiling before settling on Lestrade.

“Honestly, Lestrade? I would have thought you’d be smarter than all the rest. Me and John?” He said incredulously.

Lestrade’s brows rose. “Yes, you and John. I’m not the only one thinking it, you know.”

Sherlock looked a bit disappointed as he stared back up at the older man. He shook his head.

“John Watson is the most heterosexual male I’ve ever encountered. I would have thought it obvious,” he said with a furrow between his brow. He sat back and waited.

Something lifted off of Lestrade’s chest. The queasy, nauseated feeling he constantly experienced ever since John came into their lives had suddenly dissolved, leaving him relieved and slightly depressed.

“All this time…” he trailed off.

“Idiot,” Sherlock whispered, grabbing the front of Lestrade’s tee. He wrapped his long arms around the older man’s torso and Lestrade had to swallow past the uncomfortable lump in his throat. He ran his fingers through the dark hair again, harder this time, with purpose.

“I’m sorry I was an idiot.” He meant it. All this fucking time. Wasted time.

“Stop talking.”

He felt his entire body go flush with searing heat. Surrounded by Sherlock, it was bliss. It felt incredible after so many months of nothing. And nothing could compare to this. He was overcome with a rabid need to claim Sherlock. Sherlock was his. Completely. Entirely. He was just too stupid to see it. Too stupid to think that Sherlock would still want him. Just too stupid.

He pushed Sherlock back against the bed, lavishing his neck with warm kisses, before capturing his lips. Oh god, how he ever thought he could live without this. Nothing could ever feel this way. Sherlock’s hands all over his skin, ripping off his tee, the full lips swollen with need. Those impossible eyes that only looked his way.

And once again Sherlock had come to him for help. Lestrade had always told him he’d be there for him. Sherlock had taken it to heart and even now he felt like he could trust Lestrade. It was an indefinable feeling. The fact that Sherlock trusted him so. It was impossible to describe.

He peeled Sherlock out of his clothing until he was splayed out nude, flushed from head to toe. He placed his forehead against Sherlock’s chest, taking a moment to steady his erratic heartbeat, the lump reforming in his throat. He glided his hands up and down the long body until Sherlock was squirming underneath him.

Not completely prepared for an instance such as this, he had to make do with the supplies from the bathroom. But Sherlock never complained. Quite the opposite, actually. He didn’t care to think how thin the walls of their room were, or how much time had passed. It had been too long and Lestrade wanted to remember this night.

***

Morning sunlight filtered into the room and the brightness woke him even before his alarm. Groggy, his face stuffed into the pillow, he went for a stretch only to have his arm bump something solid.

Stilling, he suddenly realized Sherlock was still in bed with him. Almost nonchalantly, he rolled over onto his back, propping himself on his elbows. Eyes still not fully open, he squinted at the figure by his side, and found himself inwardly smiling.

Sherlock had stayed the night. It was such an odd sight, Lestrade almost couldn’t believe his eyes. Though Sherlock wasn’t asleep. He was actually fully seated, propped up against the pillows, and apparently deep in thought. His knees were raised and his hands were steepled against his chin. And he was also still very naked.

Lestrade didn’t know what to do. This was foreign territory for him. For both of them. Should he say something? Could he touch Sherlock? Should he leave him to his musings? In the end, he did what came naturally to him.

He reached over and lazily caressed Sherlock’s lower leg, testing out the waters. When he failed to receive a reaction-good or bad- he went upwards, circling his knee before roaming over pale thigh, swirling his fingers through the curly dark hair he found there. He put pressure on his upper thigh, or at least the space he could reach without turning completely over on his side.

“That’s distracting, Lestrade.”

“What happened to ‘Greg’?” He received a sidelong look for that comment. He smiled and settled back against his pillows. The last thing he wanted to do was move but he needed to know what was going on that day.

He went back to fondling Sherlock’s lean leg, this time grazing the sensitive spot on the back of his thigh, his fingers making a trail upwards. He’d have to move if he wanted-.

A hand clamped down on his and he squinted up to find Sherlock glaring at him. But it lacked the normal wrath he bore and, holding his gaze he easily pushed past the hand half-heartedly holding on to his and grazed- oh. Oh god. Sherlock was completely hard, the warmth of his cock scorching Lestrade’s fingertips.

He parted his lips as he maneuvered his thumb, flicking over the tip, already weeping with pre-come. He watched, enthralled, as Sherlock’s eyes shut tight, and a very becoming blush rose on his cheekbones.

He swiftly removed his hand and propped himself up properly, twisting around so that he was easily able to capture Sherlock’s lips. He heard the moan and wondered who it came from. He grabbed Sherlock’s neck, pulling him, crushing him against his body.

Sherlock easily straddled Lestrade, their cocks bumping into each other. This time, the sounds coming from both their mouths was unmistakable.

“Oh god, Sherlock. Sherlock, I want you, please.” He had no idea why he was begging. All he knew was that Sherlock was driving him insane and he wanted to be inside him like nothing else. All he knew was that this morning he woke up and found Sherlock in bed with him and the feeling was indescribable. And he wasn’t about to waste an opportunity to show Sherlock.

Sherlock bore down, arching into the heat. He leaned over Lestrade’s face, black hair falling across his forehead.

“Yes,” he hissed, and Lestrade’s mind exploded. He hurriedly grabbed the small bottle of baby oil he found last night and squeezed a liberal amount onto his hand. Then he grabbed his erection, lubricating it from top to bottom, eyes squeezing shut. Breathing erratically, he squeezed some more out, reached up and under Sherlock and blindly found the spot he was looking for.

He caressed Sherlock’s entrance, enjoying the little sounds Sherlock was making above him. It was excruciating. His whole body ached with need.

“Enough,” breathed Sherlock. “I’m still stretched after last night. I’m fine, just do it. Now.”

He needed no further encouragement as Sherlock practically plastered himself against him. Lestrade’s cock found the entrance and Sherlock brought his own hand down to aid him. Sweat broke over his brow as he slowly pushed his way inside, trying not to just plunder Sherlock into oblivion. Sherlock clearly was not as ready as he claimed he was judging by the tiny flickers of pain that flashed every now and then, but he uttered not a word of complaint.

When he was fully sheathed he released the breath that was pent up and squeezed his eyes shut, the feeling indescribable.

“My god…”

And then Sherlock rose up and then down again and Lestrade was lost, his mind blown to bits. He wouldn’t last long, not like this. Not with the way Sherlock was moving. They’d never fucked this way before. It was almost too...intimate. The communion, their breaths mingling, the heat of their bodies so close, Sherlock’s eyes nearly black with unchecked desire. It was too much. Lestrade wished it would never end, but his stamina wasn’t what it used to be and he latched onto Sherlock’s cock, pumping once, twice, three times and watched in amazement as Sherlock clenched every muscle in his body, and a pearly stream sprayed over Lestrade’s chest and stomach.

He followed soon after. There was no way he was going to last and he grabbed on for dear life, grunting into Sherlock’s mouth with abandon as he emptied his seed into the scorching flesh.

They lay, panting, Sherlock stuck to Lestrade’s chest. His hair was completely damp and Sherlock’s semen was dripping over his chest. It was going to get uncomfortable pretty quick, but he had zero energy remaining.

Finally, Sherlock rose and carefully disengaged himself from Lestrade. He raked his hand through Lestrade’s hair, which to Lestrade was the equivalent of a post-coital kiss. He smiled as he watched Sherlock depart to the bathroom. After a minute he heard the shower being turned on.

He lay back on the soaked sheets, his body thrumming with renewed energy, despite what just happened. He felt invigorated, alive. He felt perfect. He also felt a bit giddy which he’d have to tamper down on before Sherlock came out lest he see the stupid grin on his face.

He stretched and lazily sat up, grabbing his discarded boxers and wiping down his chest and other sticky spots. He went searching in his bag for some clean clothes and just as he laid everything out, Sherlock came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his waist.

“Jesus.”

Sherlock blinked, rolling his eyes, and threw the smaller towel he was using on his hair towards Lestrade.

“All yours. I have to go and see Henry. I have a theory...but it needs testing first.” He sighed. “Then I have to find John.” It appeared that was not an endeavor he was looking forward to.

“Need any help with anything?” Lestrade said, watching as Sherlock whipped off the bigger towel and was currently pulling on his trousers, sans pants. Sherlock going commando was quite possibly the most erotic sight he’d ever seen.

Sherlock sighed again. “I don’t think so. You can keep an ear out for anything of interest around here. It’s a small town and people like to talk.” He finished buttoning up his dress shirt, frowning distastefully at the wrinkles.

“I’m going to get changed and then I’m heading out. If you find anything I might use, text me.” He ruffled up his tangled hair and grabbed his wallet and phone. As put together as he was going to get, he stood straight, contemplating his next move.

He turned his head towards Lestrade. “Greg, I-” he looked down at his feet, hands on his hips. Finally he looked back up, licking his lips- a nervous quirk he’d had since forever.

“Thank you.”

Lestrade smiled, shaking his head. “Go on, get outta here.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked as he nodded at Lestrade and departed right after.

Lestrade couldn’t stop smiling as he finally made it to the shower, letting the warm water soak his muscles. He stayed in there a while, just replaying his interesting night (and even better morning). His grin grew wide as he realized this was probably _not_ what Mycroft had in mind when he told him to look after his brother…

***

In the end, running towards a mine field was probably not the wisest decision, but it happened so quickly that no one spared a moment to think it through. Sherlock ran after their suspect and everyone else was hot on their heels.

Out of breath, they all watched in horror as the detonation rocked their immediate vicinity, annihilating one Bob Frankland. Panting, Lestrade ordered Sherlock to back away and for once Sherlock obliged. The younger detective too was struggling for breath but already a pleased calm had settled over him. The case was closed.

He was starting to get his wits together after realizing he’d been drugged. John too kept sucking in air hoping to get rid of whatever they’d been breathing in earlier.

Lestrade retrieved his mobile and got in touch with the local police department as Sherlock and John checked up on Henry to make sure he was dealing with everything okay. He saw Sherlock walk away a short while later, his face a mask of consternation.

“What’s up?” Lestrade asked him after a minute. Sherlock straightened.

“Nothing. Just trying to clear my head.”

Lestrade huffed a laugh. “You? Thought that was impossible.”

Sherlock quirked his lip. “Usually is.” He took a deep breath. “I’d love to get my hands on whatever drug Frankland used. Research it. It alters your entire perception.”

“Tell me about it. I’ll be having nightmares for weeks,” Lestrade exclaimed with a shake of his head. His grin fell away.

“What else did you see there?” he softly asked. He could well remember the look of pure disbelief and anger Sherlock exhibited back in the Hollow when confronting Frankland.

Sherlock shook his head, a faraway look glazing his eyes. He said nothing further. John and Henry joined them as they heard the faint sounds of sirens in the distance.

Lestrade sighed wearily. He’d had enough of this holiday.

 

 


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was away on vacation. Hoping to get back into the swing of things...
> 
> SPOILERS for The Reichenbach Fall

In hindsight, he should have known. Should have realized that no matter what he did, or how much he tried to help him, he was always going to lose Sherlock. The thought was bitter and useless and did nothing to appease his mind of the inevitability. But he needed to think that. He needed the assurance that what happened, could not have been changed. He was almost- _almost_ foolish enough to believe that…

* * *

_Three months earlier:_

Everyone knew the trial was a farce. A ploy to divert attention from the psychopath on trial to the unsuspecting and brilliant Consulting Detective. Though only a few people were actually aware of the fact. Still, the day Moriarty walked out of the courtroom, a free man, not much was said, aside from the initial outrage and confusion.

Lestrade stared at the television screen in disbelief, as did half the Yard, and watched him go free, a smug, carefree expression plastered for all to see. And then he disappeared.

He tried to get Sherlock to talk about him, but any time he brought up Moriarty, Sherlock would look away, change the subject. He left it alone for a while. There was nothing for it.

When the call came in about the missing US Ambassador's kids two months after, he naturally went to Sherlock. Time was of the essence and it didn’t take much convincing. Donovan was not pleased, going so far as to mock Sherlock’s sudden rise to celebrity status.

There was a restlessness about Sherlock that had nothing to do with Donovan or the case. He gave it his full attention and yet there persisted this constant underlying disquiet that sent Lestrade’s nerves into overdrive. Sherlock wouldn’t discuss anything with him and any effort at inquiring after his state of mind was met with a cutting remark.

After uncovering the smallest bit of evidence-a footprint, Sherlock and John went to Bart’s to seek out Molly’s help. They were gone for hours while Lestrade and his team worked diligently back at the Yard. Before Sherlock and John arrived, they received a threatening fax regarding the state of the children. Sherlock merely pursed his lips, took out his mobile, and got to work.

He never stopped to think, not even for a moment about how exactly Sherlock does what he does. He’d always accepted it. Sherlock saw the world differently. He could do things, and see things that most people could not. It was both amazing and a curse. And in the end, his gift for quick thinking led them to the whereabouts of the missing children.

Blood pumping in his ears, Lestrade and his team stormed the abandoned factory, streams of light from their torches the only way to navigate the maze of rusted machinery and cobwebbed hallways.

Donovan eventually located the brother and sister, their condition weakening with each passing moment. Mercury, Sherlock had said. The candy wrappers were laced with the poison and who knew how long the kids had been snacking on the stuff. Luckily, they were both coherent enough to be taken back to the Yard, a medical personnel on staff taking their vitals on the way back.

Lestrade tried to make light of it afterwards. A little girl screaming in Sherlock’s face didn’t seem that out of the realm of possibility.  But Sherlock was in his own world, stoic, wandering the endless hallways of his mind. Donovan just gave him a look, while Lestrade shrugged in response.

After John and Sherlock had left, Lestrade found Donovan pouring over the evidence. He quietly stepped inside the room.

“Problem?” he ventured. He shouldn’t have checked. He should have left it alone. He should have dismissed her right away, ignored her doubts and accusations. It was ludacris. Preposterous. Almost laughable. And when Anderson came into the picture, throwing around accusations and theories, he almost pitched a fit.

“Just talk to him. Confront him if you must. If he’s nothing to hide, it won’t hurt any.”

Lestrade nearly glared at Donovan. He was about to tell her exactly what he thought of her idea, when another sprouted in his mind. They wanted so badly to see Sherlock fail. For years they’ve been on him. Very well then. He had nothing on at the Yard. Case was closed (aside from capturing the suspect). If they wanted him to talk to Sherlock, then he’d go talk to Sherlock.

He threw his arms up in the air.

“Fine. I wouldn’t mind the fresh air. Come on then.” He grabbed his jacket, inwardly smirking at the looks of surprise on their faces.

The ride down was tense with hardly a word spoken aside from the one time he muttered how ridiculous this whole thing was. Donovan stared at him but said nothing.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door, clearly surprised to see them all there.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hudson, but I need to have a word with Sherlock.” He turned to Sally and Anderson. “You two, stay here.” He didn’t give them a chance to argue as he sprinted up the stairs to the flat. There he found Sherlock and John climbing all over furniture, clearly searching for something.

Sherlock barely looked at him as he toyed with a wire he found.

“The answer’s _no_.”

Lestrade blinked. “But you haven’t even heard the question.”

But it was all too easy for Sherlock to deduce why he’d come. He was steps ahead of everyone, as usual. He looked down at his feet, chagrined.

“Will you come?” he finally said, after Sherlock had basically started accusing him of doubting him. Doubting who he was. He was being irrational, blaming Moriarty for everything. It was all too much to take in suddenly and he refused to make a scene in front of John and Mrs. Hudson.

“It is a game, Lestrade, and one I’m not willing to play,” he said with finality. Lestrade sighed.

“Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock quipped, fingers tapping away on his laptop. Lestrade pursed his lips and walked out. He passed Donovan in the entryway downstairs, and one look was all she needed, to know that Sherlock would not be accompanying them. They all piled into the car, Sally slamming her door.

When they got back to the Yard, Donovan whirled around to face Lestrade.

“This isn’t over, sir. We can’t just let Holmes dictate what can and can’t happen.” She indicated with her head the door at the end of the corridor. “Will you come, sir?”

Somehow he found himself in front of the Chief Superintendent, Donovan and Anderson flanking him on either side. It was not pleasant, but neither were the words spewing from his colleagues’ mouths.  He wasn’t about to let Sally and Anderson go off by themselves and defile Sherlock’s reputation to their boss. As much as he didn’t want to, he had followed them in.

It didn’t go well, and for one sickeningly frightening moment he was sure he was out of a job. He was beyond relieved to get the hell out of there. His orders were to bring Sherlock in, at once. Anderson and Donovan were only too happy to lead the way.

He slowed his walk, letting them get ahead, and took out his phone. Sighing, he called John.

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispered. “We gotta take him in. Prepare him.”

He hung up and caught up with Donovan and Anderson. The drive over was different from the first time. There was a predatory gleam in Donovan’s eyes and a smugness to Anderson that Lestrade wanted to slap away. His fingers clenched onto the steering wheel as he made his way to Sherlock’s, for the second time that night, two police cars right behind him.

He threw Mrs. Hudson an apologetic look as he and the rest of the officers barged up the stairs. John blocked their way, his expression murderous.

“Have you got a warrant? Have you?”

“Leave it, John,” Lestrade said sternly. He swallowed and walked past him. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, dressed in his coat and scarf. He stared at Lestrade indifferently. Not surprised to see him there then. He inwardly sighed, stepping aside as another officer walked over to Sherlock, cuffs in hand.

“Sherlock Holmes. I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”

Bile rose in his throat as he kept his face blank. John’s expression was thunderous as he shook his head disbelievingly.

“Get him downstairs now,” Lestrade growled to the officer holding onto Sherlock. He didn’t dare look at him as they walk past him, a decision he would regret for all time. He vaguely remembered threatening John with arrest as well if he didn’t quit interfering. The small headache he started his day with had now exploded to a full blown, debilitating migraine, threatening to shove him off the edge. Disgusted with the turn of events, he walked away.

He vaguely noticed Chief Superintendent Davis making his way inside. He frowned, wondering why he was even there. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was being searched, his body up against the police car. He swallowed and looked away, giving direction to the officer standing next to him.

He was about to reach inside his pocket to retrieve his migraine pills when he saw the Chief Superintendent walk out of the building, head held back and a wad of tissues pressed to his nose, already smeared with red.

“What the…” he started forward but stilled when two officers suddenly dragged John outdoors, hands clasped behind his back. They harshly pinned him to the same car where Sherlock stood and awkwardly cuffed one of John’s wrists to one of Sherlock’s cuffs.

The Chief was muttering muffled moans into the tissues and pointing angrily at the two cuffed men. Lestrade cringed at the scene. From where he stood and all the people milling about, he didn’t see what Sherlock had got in to. It was only when a loud, piercing screech sounded, sending grown men into squeals of pain, did he realize how utterly fucked they all were.

Distracted by the shrill sound in his earpiece from the radio Sherlock had toyed with, the officer didn’t notice when Sherlock reached around and grabbed his gun, and aimed it at John’s temple.

“Christ,” Lestrade said, arms in the air.

Sherlock screamed at everyone to get on their knees, and proceeded to fire two rounds into the air.

“Do what he says!” bellowed Lestrade, his heart ready to burst through his ribcage. Everyone dropped, lowering their weapons. Everything happened in a blur, as Sherlock backed away, dragging John along with him.

He groaned and put his face in his hands. Sherlock and John had rounded the corner and went out of sight. The Chief Superintendent glared at Lestrade, screeching at him, blood spurting from his nose.

“Get after him, Lestrade!”

Donovan threw Lestrade a dark look as she and the rest of the cops ran after the now fugitives. Lestrade’s stomach did something rather unpleasant and he slowed his movements, still not quite believing or understanding what had happened. He was shaking so much he didn’t bother to retrieve his gun. He knew there’d be no point. Sherlock was gone.

By the time he was back in his car the tremors hadn’t abated. His head killed, his heartrate was spiked and his legs could barely move.

What was Sherlock thinking?

He groaned as Sally and Anderson joined him, faces mottled with anger.

“I told you this would happen! You always want to believe the best of him, Greg! Always. He’s been playing you! Playing everyone. Good god, he could be anywhere now!”

“Shut it, Sally!” Lestrade roared. He’d had enough. “Enough out of you til we reach the Yard. Out of both of you!” He stared ahead and drove, too angry to relish in the wonderful silence.

When they reached the Yard, the place was a chaotic pit, a bustle of activity. He headed straight to his office, slamming the door behind him. He pulled open his desk drawer, hastily retrieving the migraine meds. He downed two capsules, foregoing the water and hissed as they scratchily made their way down his throat. Then he collapsed at his desk.

It was a nightmare. There was no coming back from this. Not for Sherlock. No matter what happened after this day, no matter even if he somehow managed to catch Moriarty, Sherlock would not be the same individual he was just yesterday. The thought pained him. His reputation aside, he was fearful for his life.

He knew the Consulting Detective was going after Jim Moriarty. This whole mess was because of him, because he had some weird personal vendetta against Sherlock. He wanted him destroyed, bit by bit, and he was getting his wish. Sherlock would pay dearly. Lestrade couldn’t even think of the possibilities.

For years Sherlock had gone off, solving crimes, solving murders. Running after dangerous men, confronting peril full on. Lestrade realized a while ago talking to Sherlock about that was pointless. That was who he was. Danger meant nothing; the possibility of death only spurred him on. He lived his life precariously.

But this was entirely different. This time, Moriarty was the real deal. He had people who knew people who killed people. The web was infinite and there was no point guessing how far it stretched. Sherlock was now playing his game. And he had everything to lose.

***

He didn’t go home. He couldn’t even if he were allowed to leave. The Chief was beyond livid, ordering everyone to find Sherlock. It was quite tense and he kept glaring at Lestrade whenever they were in the same room, as if it were his fault they were all in this mess.

The thing was, no one knew where to start looking. Hardly anyone knew Sherlock on a personal level so they had no ideas. Even Lestrade shrugged when asked.

“It’s Sherlock. He could be anywhere, and he certainly won’t be where people expect him to be. We won’t find him,” he said with certainty. He actually did have a couple spots where he could check, but he kept his mouth shut. No good would come of it if he was right.

“His brother,” Sally provided. “That might be a good place to start looking.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Sherlock wouldn't go to Mycroft. Not even now. They don’t exactly have the best of relationships.” Then he thought it over. “But I suppose it can’t hurt to try. I’ll go.”

“No.” That was the Chief, practically blocking his way.

“Not by yourself you’re not. Donovan, Bradley, go with him. You and I are gonna have a nice long chat after this is all over with, Lestrade,” he threatened.

Lestrade scowled, shaking his head. “Fine, sir.” He nodded towards Donovan and the other officer, Bradley. Sidestepping the Chief, he led the way out of the Yard. When they got to the car, he checked the clock. Three a.m. He silently groaned.

“Sir, where does his brother live?”

“Near Pall Mall, I think. But that’s not where we’re going.”

“Why not, sir?”

“Because he won’t be at home. You don’t think he’s aware of what’s happened?” He sighed, hitting the gas hard. “Mycroft Holmes knows everything. But I’m pretty sure he’s not gonna be able to help us out.”

“Why not, sir?”

Lestrade kept his eyes on the road as he sped off, his hands tight on the wheel.

“Because if Sherlock Holmes wants to avoid being seen, not even Mycroft will be able to find him. That’s why this whole thing is _pointless_! He slammed the wheel, hard. Silence reigned.

“You don’t want him caught.” That was Donovan, stating the obvious as usual.

“This whole mess is cause of you and Anderson. Sherlock is no more guilty than I am. You’ve never liked him, from day one. You never gave him a chance.”

“He’s the one who looked down at us! He’s impossible, Greg! How can you not see that? Why do you like him, sir? What do you see in him?” She was all but screaming now, and Lestrade’s head was about to implode.

“Sherlock can be impossible and he can be a jerk. But you give him zero respect for his line of work. He has solved more cases for us in the six years I’ve known him than our entire team could working round the clock for the next twenty years. Believe me, he’s not looking for praise. He’s not even getting paid by us as you well know. So I just have to assume it’s jealousy that’s been driving you all these years, Sally. Because he’s better than you. He’s better than everyone.”

Sally stared, mouth agape. “You’re being ridiculous, sir. You’re defending him when he would no more lift a finger if you were in trouble or come to your aide if your life depended on it. He’s not right in the head, how can you not see that? People like that can’t live normal lives like the rest of us. Not forever. And look what’s happened! He pulled a gun on the police! A normal, sane person wouldn’t do that.”

Lestrade stared ahead, teeth grinding. “You don’t get it, Sally. You just don’t.”

Sally huffed. “Oh I get it, sir. I get that you’re basically choosing him over me. That’s what you're saying, isn’t it? He’s better than I am. You’re willing to risk your job and reputation over him?”

Lestrade sighed. “That’s outta my hands now. And don’t be obtuse, Sally. No one is choosing anything. All I’m saying is, you’ve never given him a chance. Nobody has. Bit unfair if you ask me. Especially after everything he’s done for us.”

“You mean all the times he’s played us?”

He hit the brakes, not even aware he was doing it until the screech resonated throughout the car. He rounded on Donovan, relishing the look of sudden panic on her face.

“While you’re in my presence, I don’t ever want to hear that bullshit come out of your mouth. If you believe for one second that Sherlock isn’t genuine then I have nothing further to talk to you about.”

He slammed on the gas and rounded the corner, pulling up to the Diogenes Club. He jumped out, banging the door behind him. The other two sergeants followed quietly behind.

He walked straight inside, flashing his badge. He stopped the nearest man he saw.

“DI Lestrade. I want to see Mycroft Holmes. Now.”

The man looked at him indifferently, but indicated with a nod to follow. He led them down a few corridors before pointing to the dark mahogany door. Then he turned around and left them.

Lestrade knocked, loudly. After a few seconds, the door opened, revealing a very awake and impeccably dressed Mycroft.

“Inspector.”

“A word, Mr. Holmes.” He pushed past the other man, into what appeared to be a spacious office. It was dark and sombre, fitting for Mycroft.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Mycroft patiently asked, his eyes dull and stoney.

“Oh I think you know. No doubt you’re aware of what happened earlier this evening? With Sherlock?”

“I am aware,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving Lestrade’s.

“Do you know where he is or where he might be?”

“I do not. I have already tried, unsuccessfully to contact him. And before you ask, no, I do not know the whereabouts of John Watson either.”

“Did you know he ran off handcuffed, while toting a stolen gun?” This from Sally.

“My brother did always have a flair for the dramatic.”

Lestrade sighed. “This isn’t funny, Mycroft. Not only is Sherlock in trouble, he’s also potentially in danger. Moriarty-”

“I know who Moriarty is. And I know what he is capable of. And if you don't think I’ve been working all night on this, then you are very much misinformed.”

Lestrade recognized that tone all too well. He was about to take his leave when Bradley spoke up.

“Mr. Holmes, do you know of any acquaintances or friends that Sherlock might try to contact?”

Mycroft cocked his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Friends? Sargeant, have you actually met my brother? How many friends do you think he has? How many people do you think he trusts?” He looked away from the younger sargeant, back to Lestrade. “No. Whatever Sherlock is up to, there is only one person he can trust at a time like this. And that is himself.”

They scrambled into the car, their mood dark and weary. Lestrade started up the car and they drove back to the Yard in silence. After a while, Sally said, “He’s lying. He has to know something.”

Lestrade sighed, rolling his tired eyes. “Mycroft Holmes essentially runs the British Government. Whatever he knows, we’re never going to find out.” And left it at that.

When they got back, the activity had died down a bit. Still no word on Sherlock or John. He didn’t know whether to be troubled or relieved. He went back to his office, his stomach in knots.

The hours ticked by. Dawn peaked through the clouds just as Chief Superintendent Davis finished briefing everyone. So far their searched had proved fruitless. No one had any idea where Sherlock was, what he was up to, or where this would all lead.

Lestrade toyed with his phone. Sitting alone in his office, empty stomach, no sleep and nerves frayed, his finger rubbed across the name on screen. He could call him. He could try. But every time he thought that he chickened out. In truth, he was afraid. What if Sherlock didn’t pick up? What if he did? What would either of them say? Either way the conversation wouldn’t end well.

Plus, what if Sherlock was captured, and they got his phone. It certainly wouldn’t look good to see the DI’s number in Sherlock’s recent contacts. So with a heavy sigh he tucked his phone away and sat, staring at nothing.

It wasn’t until Donovan came into his office with a steaming mug of coffee did he realize how much time had passed. She pursed her lips as she set it down on his desk.

“Won’t do us any good if you fall asleep.”

It was a peace offering he knew, but he was still bitter about things. He nodded his thanks, barely looking at her. She left him to his thoughts. He checked his clock. Barely seven in the morning. He slowly reached for his mug, just as his phone chimed.

He nearly burned his hand as he started, reaching into his pocket to extract the insistent iPhone.

John. John was texting him?

_What’s happened to Mrs. Hudson?_

He stared down in confusion, his fingers automatically moving.

      _What do you mean? Where’s Sherlock?_

No answer. No answer. No answer…

“Fuck.”

      _I heard Mrs. Hudson got shot?! Almost at Baker st._

Lestrade frowned, his face turning ashen. He scrolled through his contacts before finding the one for Mrs. Hudson. She gave him her number one time in case Sherlock couldn’t be reached or didn’t want to be reached. It rang. And rang. Finally, when he was about to hang up…

“Hello?”

He sucked in a breath. “Mrs. Hudson. It’s Greg, Lestrade. Is everything alright?”

She sighed, exasperated. “Oh I have been in a state! Worrying about poor Sherlock. Has everything been sorted with that? Oh! The kettle’s going off. Call you back in a bit, dear?”

Shaking his head in disbelief he said, “Uh, course.”

They hung up, Lestrade more puzzled than ever. He was just about to text John when he was called away. Mentally cursing rotten timing he stormed out of his office to join the rest of his team on the main floor. Phones were going off like crazy.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Not sure, sir. Phones just started ringing. Lots of tips suddenly. About Holmes. All in the last ten, fifteen minutes.”

Eyes narrowing in confusion, he sat down at the closest empty desk and picked up a ringing phone.”

“DI Lestrade.”

“Yea, good mornin’. I know you’re all looking for that strange fella’. The detective? Think I saw him just half an hour ago, entering the library. Wearing that big coat a’ his. Pretty sure it was him.”

Lestrade frowned, mentally sighing. Something was not adding up.

“Yes, thank you, sir. Bye.” He hung up, his eyes roaming the room as other calls were being answered, more useless information given. His eyes found Sally’s, who was apparently having an equally strange conversation. She gave him a look and shrugged. He returned it.

He stood up, just as the phone started to ring again. Licking his lips, he picked it up.

“Yea, DI Lestrade here.”

“Hello, DI Lestrade. I just saw Sherlock Holmes sneaking into Buckingham Palace. Had a dangerous glint in his eye.”

“Who is this? Calling in fake tips is a crime. Now, who the fuck is this?”

“Jim sends his love.”

The line went dead. Heart banging erratically he looked up and around, his mouth going dry. Then, of a sudden, the phones stopped ringing. Every single one, silent as the grave. The officers mid-call stared down at their now-dead receivers.

“What the hell is going on?” Sally boomed.

“Someone find out if these calls can be traced back! Now, dammit!” Now he was fuming, his skin flushed with anger. He stormed back into his office, slamming the door shut.

He fell into his chair, then took out some more pills for his never-ending headache. He sat in silence for a few minutes, trying to calm his breathing and his nerves.

He heard a commotion outside his door. He lifted his head just as Donovan pulled it open with such force as to nearly tear it from its hinges. He frowned at her expression. Her face, void of blood, her eyes…

He stood. “Sally?”

She shook her head, her mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out. She swallowed tightly, her throat bobbing with the forced action.

“Sally?” he tried again, his voice barely more than a strained whisper.

She jerked her head, like she couldn’t even trust her own words. “I’m sorry, sir,” she managed, her brow creasing with strain. “He… he’s dead.”

Lestrade stared at her like seeing her for the first time. He cocked his head, as if he didn't actually hear what she said.

“What?” he nearly squeaked, his fingers pressing onto his desk top for support he didn’t realize he needed.

“Holmes, sir. He...jumped off the roof of Bart’s.” Her eyes went round, and her fingers clenched the doorknob, knuckles turning white.

He looked away from her, the breath leaving his lungs. He tried to steady his voice, but it was useless.

“When?”

“Not ten minutes ago. Numerous witnesses reported it.”

The background bustle had turned to static, and a wave of dizziness coursed through his body. There was a constant throbbing in his head, turning him numb to feeling.

“Are you okay, sir?”

He said nothing. He did nothing. He couldn’t even move from the spot. He looked down at his desk, at his phone lying there. He looked back up at Sally, at the concern on her face, a mix of pity and disbelief. He looked past her to the activity in the other room, the shock mirrored on everyone’s face.

His head was about to split open. He felt himself nod, as his vision swam, and everything turned to slow motion. He saw her mouth moving but he heard nothing. Just a swarming buzz in his ears, drowning everything out. He swallowed and the sound was like a car crash screeching past his ear drums. He watched her turn and leave, her body crawling through time at the speed of a snail.

She closed the door before she left. To give him what? Privacy? A moment alone before the finality him him like a ton of bricks?

Sherlock was dead.

_Fuck nononononononoo._  

He barreled out of his office, stride long but never giving into a full blown run. Faces whirled past him, his name being called. He didn’t dare take a breath. His destination lay ahead, the door with the little silhouette of a man. The loo. A place he’d been to a thousand times. And right then and there the only place in all of Scotland Yard where he could find refuge.

He banged open the door and immediately locked it. All three stalls were empty, and he thanked every deity for it. He braced his arms on the sink counter and stared into the mirror. His face had gone ashen, the grey of his hair standing out in high contrast. He looked into his own eyes. They bore the truth of it. The gaze stared back, disbelieving and broken.

His throat seized up and he took large gulpfuls of air but it only made everything worse. He made a fist, pressing it to his mouth. His hand shook, and shook. His eyes burned as every breath was like a pinprick through his heart, poking tiny holes until all the blood seeped out, killing him slowly, painfully. He bit down on his fist to stifle the sound threatening to make its way past his throat.

After that, his body couldn’t support his weight anymore and he slid to the floor, shaking and cold. He stayed like that for what seemed like hours, not moving, not caring. The pressure bearing down on his chest had not evaporated, nor had his head decided to suddenly stop splitting in two. Nor did it change the fact that Sherlock was dead.

He closed his eyes, the tremors churning his stomach. He was suddenly glad he had nothing to eat in almost a day. The floor was cold beneath him and someone was knocking on the door. He lazily looked up, too exhausted to move his lips.

“Sir? Sir, it’s me. It’s Sally. Please open the door.”

God, how long had he been in there? He couldn’t move. He was numb. Everything was just numb.

He took a deep, steady breath.

“Be right out.” It sounded dead to his ears. But the knocking stopped. He slowly rolled over onto his stomach, not caring about the fact that this was the _men’s_ room and god only knew what was on those floors. Still unaffected, he pressed his forehead to the cool tile, eyes closed.

He told himself to get up. This was unbecoming of a DI. He was needed. He needed to get back to work.

Somehow, with the strength he didn’t know he still had, he got himself standing. He ran a hand through his hair, patted some cold water on his face, and went back out there.

Sally was there, against the wall, waiting for him. She didn’t say anything at first. Not until he looked at her and nodded.

“His body is at Bart’s morgue. John is there too. Apparently, he saw the whole thing. They want someone to go down there to-”

“I’ll do it,” he said, his voice hoarse. She looked at him for a beat, then said, “I’ll drive.”

He nodded, suddenly grateful for her. There was no way he would have been able to operate any type of vehicle in his state. He stopped by his office to gather his phone and followed Sally to the car. No one spoke on the drive to Bart’s. Again, Lestrade was grateful for Sally’s presence and her tact.

When they arrived, there were scores of people and cars in the area. Police cruisers and ambulances, yellow tape going up. He got out, a dizzy spell seizing him before he heard Sally yelling for people to get back. They made their way to the cordoned off area. The site of the body. He saw the yellow tape, then he saw the dark red splatters all over the pristine pavement, all leading to the larger pool of blood a few feet from the building. He turned away, his vision going white.

They pushed past people towards the entrance, Donovan leading the way. Reporters were everywhere. How the hell did they get there so fast? It was a mob scene. When they finally made it inside, it was almost a relief. Until he remembered where he was headed.

He’d taken these steps before. Countless times. He knew the way to the morgue blindfolded. How many times had he walked these corridors, and talked over a corpse with Molly or one of the other techs, indifferent to the fact that there was a dead human on the slab beneath them. It was just another part of his job. Something he did every day.

His feet carried him forward even as his heart wrenched him away. Almost there now. His breath hitched as he saw John, seated on one of the hallway benches by the morgue, where loved ones waited to identify the bodies. Seeing John there, staring ahead at nothing, looking small and lost in the otherwise empty hall was nearly unbearable. It was proof somehow, that this was all happening.

“John.”

He turned at the sound of his voice, a look of bewilderment settling on his face. Lestrade noticed his hands were covered in blood and he looked no better than Lestrade felt.

“Greg,” he said, his voice small and shuttered. He took a sharp breath but the energy seeped out of him and he said nothing further.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked with a harsh whisper, his voice gone raw.

John stared ahead, just shaking his head back and forth. He was slouched over, hands folded together, uncaring for the stains on his clothing or the acrid smell of drying blood.

His shoulders hitched up, before falling back down. “He just jumped. He called me and said some things that didn’t make sense. And then he. Just. Jumped.” He swallowed hard, his head still moving back and forth. He scrunched his lips together, not looking at either Lestrade or Sally.

Lestrade looked up, at the door next to the bench. He indicated to Sally that he was going inside. She nodded solemnly, just as her phone rang. As she walked down the hall to answer it, he turned the doorknob.

He found Molly inside, a weepy mess. Or she was moments ago at least. Now her eyes were dry but red, and so very tired looking. Her hair was a mess and her hands shook.

“Molly,” he said quietly and she licked her lips as a grimace crossed her face. She continued to gnaw on her lips as she tried to get herself in control. He looked down at his feet to give her a moment.

“Greg,” she finally said, her voice a quivering mess. “I assume you’re here to see...the body?”

He sighed, his pulse rate increasing. “Yeah. Please. And Molly? I’m-”

He couldn’t even say it. _I’m sorry_ was too fucking cliché and too damn real. He couldn't do it. No one would say it back to him. No one would say, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss, Greg.’ He’d never hear those words spoken to him because no one ever knew how much Sherlock actually meant to him. After all these years and no one ever knew or guessed. It was too difficult to think on that now so he silently indicated to the body lying under the white cloth.

She nodded, her eyes watering. They walked over to the slab, Lestrade’s whole body shaking. Molly drew a breath and slowly, reverently, she picked up the sheet, and pulled it back.

Words failed him. He stared down with a grim expression, at the body that was Sherlock and now was no more than an empty shell. Face white as the sheet that covered it, ugly bruising marring what was once flawless, fair skin, and blood. Blood everywhere he looked. Smeared in the dark, wavy hair, trailing downwards to the closed eyes and further still, pooling in the crevice of his mouth.

The expression was serene and if not for the blood, almost dream-like. He could imagine Sherlock was simply sleeping, peaceful and content. And as soon as he thought that, the smell filled his nostrils, coppery and unmistakable. He stepped back and gagged. Without saying a word he rushed past Molly, jetting towards the toilet just in the next room.

He retched as soon as he was over the basin, bile rising unrelentlessly, emptying his stomach of acid and the few remaining bits of food from the day before. His stomach contracted painfully as tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, clenched tight against the sudden assault. His mouth tasted foul and yet his stomach persisted, painful spasms leaving him near keeling on the floor.

Moaning, head hung low, he waited for the pain to pass. Finally, when nothing further could be expelled he blindly reached for the tap and wiped his mouth with cool water, splashing some on his cheeks and forehead to ward off the dizziness. He gathered some in his palm and swished it in his mouth, spitting out the rotten taste.

Eyes still firmly closed he shut off the tap and tried to steady his breathing. He could not fall apart. Not here. But his vision would be forever stained with the image of a broken Sherlock, lying cold and lifeless on that metal slab. No amount of water could wash that away.

Taking a deep breath he opened his eyes, not even bothering to check his reflection. He grabbed a paper towel and slowly dabbed his face dry. Exhausted beyond belief he went back to Molly.

“Sorry,” he said the moment he saw her, still standing by Sherlock’s body, now firmly covered up. He could still see the red staining the white sheet. He looked away.

She shook her head, dismissing his apology.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, her lip quirking awkwardly. “Lucky you weren’t here to see me when they brought him in.” Her attempt at levity was not unappreciated, but he had no energy to even muster up a pretend smile.

“Did John…” he started, his voice scratchy and pained.

She shook her head. “No. No, I think once was enough for him.”

He nodded morosely. “Thank you, Molly. He’s in good hands.”

Her eyes glossed over and she instantly started to sob, her hands covering her mouth. Lestrade lowered his head and quietly left, leaving her to mourn.

Back in the corridor, Sally was nowhere to be seen. Just John, still sitting there on the bench. Still covered in Sherlock’s blood.

“Why did he do it, John?”

John sniffed, his jaw clenching. “Because Sherlock always has to have the last word in.”

He was surprised by the bitterness he heard. John was livid, it didn’t take a genius to see it. Beneath the sad, shocked eyes and the pained expression, and the permanent crease between his eyes, he was angry. And Lestrade couldn’t blame him.

He looked up at the ceiling, at the awful fluorescent lights spanning the length of the hall. He sighed, raking a hand through his head.

“I was sent here to find out everything I could. But I’m not gonna ask you right now, John. Go home. Go somewhere else. This is not a good place.”

John nodded, not really looking at him. Lestrade hung his head and cautiously lifted his arm, setting it on John’s shoulder. He gave it a light squeeze with his quivering hand, then removed it, strangely feeling bereft.

Lestrade turned around and walked away. He needed fresh air.

Back outside, it seemed like more people had arrived. Crews were everywhere, people yelling all sorts of things. He felt overwhelmed suddenly and nearly went back inside if not for Donovan’s sudden presence by his side. She lightly grabbed his arm and meandered them both towards the car, her sporadically yelling at people to get out of the way.

She sped off as soon as they closed the doors. Lestrade gazed out the window, a whirl of colours passing by. It was a lovely morning, bright and promising. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them back up again, he realized they weren’t headed back to the Yard.

“Sally? Where are we going?”

“Taking you home, sir.”

He didn’t question it. They were probably expecting him back at work, to debrief. The Chief most likely wanted a statement. There would be an inquiry…

He closed his eyes again and realized he didn’t care. About anything. And when Sally pulled up to his flat, he was barely able to lift his hand to open the door. His whole body ached.

“Sir, do you need anything?”

Just Sherlock not to be dead.

He shook his head. “Thanks, Sally.”

Every step towards the building hurt, the pressure sending bolts of pain straight to his heart. He vaguely wondering if he was having a heart attack. It wasn’t out of the question. Not at his age…

The ride up was grueling, as if his muscles didn’t want to cooperate in keeping him upright. Every inch of him ached. When he finally reached his door he retrieved his keys and slowly unlocked his door, his hands shaking the entire time.

He stood in his entryway for the longest time before wandering into the kitchen. Reaching into his medicine cabinet, he found some long-forgotten sleeping pills he needed once upon a time. They were expired. He took out four, swallowing them whole.

Then he removed his jacket and shoes and went to his bedroom. He sat on his bed, boneless and achy.

He wasn’t sure if it was the meds, or the exhaustion finally catching up to him, or simply the grief, but he soon passed out, welcoming the blissful silence.

He didn’t leave his flat for two days. He ignored every phone call and text, ignored the rumbling in his stomach and the all-consuming hammering in his head. He picked apart his liquor cabinet, guzzling down whatever he could lay his hands on. It wasn’t much as he hadn’t restocked it properly in months, maybe years. Sherlock’s influence, he realized.

He drank himself into a stupor, then passed out either on the sofa or the bed, and then did it all over again once he woke up. No one came to see him which was both a blessing and an annoyance.

Surely someone at the Yard would have checked up on him? Unless Sally was fielding people. Giving him room to breathe.

There were pieces of Sherlock throughout his flat. Little things. A random pen, a microscope slide, a finger preserved in the icebox. A matchbox with nearly all the matches missing. None of it was important or useful or even special. But it was all Sherlock’s. He touched those things once. His DNA was all over each item.

He found a small shoebox and carefully put all the items inside, save for the finger. He didn’t want to throw anything away, but he didn’t want to look at it either. When he was finished he drank some more.

On the third day he heard a knocking at his door. He lazily looked over from where he was curled up on the sofa, debating whether he had the energy to get up and open it. The knocking grew louder. Sighing, he slowly sat up and dragged himself to the door.

It was Sally. She looked him up and down before pursing her lips.

“Chief’s asking for you. He wants you in the office today. Sorry, I’ve run out of excuses.”

He waved her off. “T’s fine. I was expecting it anyway.”

She stood there, awkward and unsure, fingering a groove in the door frame. She cleared her throat.

“Funeral’s tomorrow. At nine.”

He looked away, swallowing.

“I tried to text you but-”

“Yea, sorry. Thanks for...letting me know.”

“Will you go?”

Fuck no.

“We’ll see.”

She nodded. “Do you want me to drive you to work?”

He thought about it then shook his head. “I’ll take a cab.”

Another nod. “See you there, boss.” Then she left, leaving him alone once more. He looked back at the inviting warmth of the sofa, debating. In the end he showered and got dressed, going through the steps on autopilot. Stepping outside for the first time in days he breathed in the crisp air, but it didn’t make him feel any more alive. He hailed a cab.

When he got to work he received a few odd stares but most of his crew was happy to see him. He walked straight, nodding a greeting as he passed, not stopping. He paused at someone’s desk however, when a newspaper headline caught his eye. It was from The Sun, dated yesterday.

**“Suicide of Fake Genius”**

He tore his eyes away, bile rising. Oh god...People were actually reading this. People were buying into this drivel. It was shameful, and horribly wrong.

He sat in the Chief’s office, waiting morosely. He had no idea what to expect and found he actually didn’t care. His job was on the line, he knew, but he couldn’t muster enough energy to give a damn, not when Sherlock’s name was being slandered throughout the world.

Finally arriving, the Chief sat across from Lestrade, folding his hands in front of him. He didn’t look entirely angry, nor was he pleased. He looked more tired than anything.

“Well, we’ve got a bit of a mess on our hands.” he started. Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his head throbbing. He licked his lips.

“Yeah.”

The Chief looked reproachful. “There’s going to be an investigation.” He paused as if for effect. Then he sighed and said, “And I’m putting you on paid leave.”

Lestrade didn’t even bat an eye. It wasn’t terribly surprising, really. Actually, he was more shocked that he was getting paid for it. Or that he wasn’t being sacked on the spot. He merely nodded.

“I don’t know what to think, Lestrade. You’re one of my best men. One of the best detectives in this division. So how could someone as smart as you be….hoodwinked into believing someone like Holmes?”

Lestrade ground his teeth, his eyes going dark. He opened his mouth but the Chief suddenly raised his hand.

“You’ll get your chance to talk, Lestrade. Like I said, there will be a proper investigation, and you’ll get to say your piece. And I hope it’s good. For your sake.”

Lestrade took that as a dismissal. He stood and unclasped his gun from its holster, and removed his badge, dropping it on the desk. Then without a word he turned around and left. No one stopped him.

***

The funeral was extremely small and generalized. The pastor gave a speech. Sherlock would have hated every minute of it. Mrs. Hudson cried nonstop, while John sat stoically, eyes blankly staring ahead. He recognized Stamford, from Bart’s and a large, gruff-looking man that he later found out was Angelo, an owner of a restaurant Sherlock frequently visited.

Lestrade sat through the service silently seething. He wasn’t going to go at all. He didn’t think he could possibly survive it, but Mrs. Hudson had called him, all weepy and desperate, and he couldn’t say no. But now his grief had turned to anger.

Mycroft never showed up. To his own brother’s funeral. Neither did his parents, though to be honest, Sherlock hardly spoke of them so Lestrade had no idea whether they were even around. The biggest surprise by far was the no-show of Molly Hooper. Molly who crushed on Sherlock for years and possibly even loved him in her own way, and put up with his rebukes and dismissals, and who wept over his lifeless, cold body...She never showed up.

So while the pastor nattered on pointlessly, Lestrade fumed in silence. He was startled to feel a presence by his side. Turning his head he saw that a couple of men from his unit had arrived. There was Gregson, another Senior Detective at the Yard, and a few sergeants. None of them knew Sherlock closely, though Gregson had used Sherlock on a few of his cases. Still, it was surprising and admirable to see them there, by his side. Even if they didn’t know Sherlock well, they were well aware of how long Lestrade knew the young detective. It was a small comfort, to know that not everyone believed the rubbish being spewed by the press.

Still, it was not enough. The damage had been done. In a matter of days, Sherlock Holmes’ reputation went from celebrated and lauded to being called a fraud. He was almost glad Sherlock wasn’t around to witness it. Then again, he’d probably just roll his eyes and accuse them all of idiocy.

When the service ended, he shook hands with his fellow officers and turned to leave. John stopped him though, a hand on his shoulder.

“John,” he said with a small nod.

“Hey, Greg. I ah, heard you were put on leave.” His brow creased. “A load of nonsense. This whole thing is preposterous.” He huffed a sigh, looking away momentarily. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get carried away. Just so angry at everything right now, ya know?”

He did. He nodded in sympathy.

“Listen, you want to grab a pint or something?” He didn’t even know what possessed him to ask but surprisingly, John agreed.

“Yeah, I would.”

They sat opposite each other at a pub a short walking distance from the cemetery. It was quiet, being early still. They each nursed a beer, not really saying much of anything.

It was getting uncomfortable and since Lestrade was the one to invite John, he felt it only fair that he should start up some sort of conversation.

“So, will you be going back to Baker Street?”

John sighed. “I don’t think so. I can't...imagine myself living there anymore. Alone.”

He nodded in understanding.

“I can’t believe Mycroft never showed.”

“Mycroft is a dick,” John simply said with the smallest of sneers. “Sherlock wouldn't have wanted him sullying up his funeral anyway.”

Lestrade didn’t know if that was supposed to be a joke or not. Would they ever be able to make jokes again? Would they ever laugh?

He cracked a smile anyway, but it died as quickly as it came.

He toyed with the rim of his glass. “John. Will you tell me what he said to you? On the rooftop?”

A pained expression crossed John’s face before he locked up all emotion, save for the bitterness in his tone.

“You know, Greg. It’s not even worth repeating. It was all bullshit. All of it. That wasn’t Sherlock there up on that roof. That was a stranger. The Sherlock I knew would never have committed suicide. He would have thought it boring. The Sherlock I knew wouldn’t phone his friend, essentially dismissing their entire relationship as a farce of some kind. The Sherlock I knew wasn’t a coward but his voice shook with fear, Greg. Genuine fear. Not of dying either. Sherlock didn’t fear death.”

Lestrade couldn’t breathe. His face fell, the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

“Then why?” he croaked, tried again. “Why did he do it?”

John looked away, an angry shrug his only answer. Beers forgotten, they sat sullenly, their mutual anguish binding them closer than ever before. After a while John picked his glass up again, taking a large gulp.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly, his voice carrying a lilt of curiosity.

“Sure,” Lestrade replied.

The pause was so long Lestrade thought John had lost his nerve or forgotten his question altogether. He tilted his glass back for another sip.

“What was Sherlock to you?”

He froze, midway to the tabletop. After a beat he set his glass down and licked his lips.

“How do you mean?” He kept his face blank, but couldn’t stop the perspiration from forming on his skin, nor his heart from hammering.

“I mean, you and Sherlock. I know you knew him years before I came along. I guess I’ve always wondered. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to get personal. It’s just I know Sherlock respected you. He thought highly of you, even if he never said it in so many words. It’s nice, I guess. Knowing he had someone to keep an eye on him before I came in and became his babysitter.”

John quirked his lip in fond remembrance. He looked at Lestrade for clarification.

It was on the tip of his tongue.

_Sherlock and I were lovers._

But no. He couldn’t ever say that. Not with surety. Just a fancy, really. A glint of hope he held onto for years. And while the times they shared a bed was few in between, it was also glorious and etched into his memory for all time. But lovers wasn’t the right word for what they were.

So he took the cowardly way out, because deep down, he wanted this secret to stay hidden. Not because he was ashamed or embarrassed. But because Sherlock never told anyone. Not even John. It was something only they shared, something only they had. And he wanted to keep that close to him.

“He was my friend. Maybe the closest I’ve ever had, as funny as that may sound. He was also a good man. And I’m not gonna sit quietly while his good name gets slandered. That’s what really gets me, you know? The audacity of some people. The lies they create and the web they weave.”

John nodded. “It’s horrible. I don’t even turn the telly on anymore. I don’t want people’s last impression of him to be some lie.”

Lestrade nodded, a determined glint in his eye. He raised his glass.

“To Sherlock Holmes, the best man I’ve ever known.”

John followed suit, his eyes glassy and pained.

“To Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

 


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who took the time to review! It really makes my day...
> 
> Note: There is a change in perspective in this chapter, and of course SPOILERS for The Empty Hearse. Also, I've changed the length of Sherlock's time away to the book canon version of three years vs two. Enjoy!

The inertia was maddening. Despite nearly three years of being flung into potentially life-threatening situations, assimilating with terrorists and receiving numerous injuries, Sherlock still couldn’t take the stretches of dullness. Perhaps it was because the time dragged and allowed his mind to wander, something he tried to avoid at all cost. Musing was not a good idea. Reminiscing was even worst.

Loneliness was second nature to him but the solitude tore at him, something he never expected. Who was he to demand an audience? He was no one. A nameless soul amongst an army of nameless faces. He was no soldier and yet there he was, flung into a pit of vipers, an inescapable situation. A million miles from home, without a friend in the world.

He tried to concentrate on home as his head took a beating, but it proved futile. The physical pain meant nothing, for hard as he tried, his mind kept his past locked up tight. Home was nowhere and everywhere. His old life was dead. Gone. Forgotten. It was a miracle he had survived so long.

But Sherlock Holmes didn’t believe in something so fantastical as miracles. Three years since he’d seen a familiar face. The relief was almost too much to bear and too difficult to comprehend. Nevermind the fact that it was his own brother that came to his rescue, so to speak.

And just like that it all came crashing down. The walls he put up long ago, the moments he locked away, deep in the recesses of his mind, hidden away until he could bear to bring them back. One look into his brother’s face-disguised as it was- sent him reeling, his mind reignited. He was almost thankful for his numerous injuries as he was certain walking would be impossible in his frazzled state. Thankfully Mycroft was too busy with trying to get them both out alive to notice.

The moment his brother mentioned London his pulse quickened, despite the fear that surrounded him. How could he go back? As much as he craved to return to the place that he loved, how would it be possible?

Mycroft droned ceaselessly in the background as the plane shook from turbulence. Sherlock noticed none of it. His entire body hurt but he had refused medical attention, choosing to leave as quickly as possible. He couldn’t remember the last time he showered or shaved or ate. His lifestyle of late did not permit such luxuries on a daily basis. He had become all too used to it.

Now, plucked away, he retreated into himself, trying to regain some control of his spiraling memories. Flashes of colour flew by him, all much too quickly. Mycroft was asking him something. He closed his eyes, shutting away the pointless questions, the hum of the engine, the tapping of keys.

He slept. It was marvelous. 

The sky was grey and misty upon their arrival. Sherlock couldn’t contain the smile, his heart swelling as he took everything in. Mycroft pushed him towards the waiting limo. Sherlock was too content to roll his eyes. Mycroft sat away from him. Probably the stench. Sherlock found he didn’t care.

A steaming bath was waiting for him, and some clean clothing. He stayed in the tub for two hours before Mycroft came knocking.

“Tomorrow we’ll take care of your hair and face. I can have the doctor come tonight to take a look at your injuries.”

“No need. I’m fine.” His head lay back against the obscenely long tub, eyes drowsy from the heat. Mycroft leaned against the vanity, arms crossed.

“Sherlock, I really do think you need attending to.”

The younger man craned his neck ever so slightly, eyes regretfully fluttering open. He peered up at his brother.

“I haven’t needed attending to in three years, Mycroft. Nothing’s changed in two days. Now kindly leave so I can finish my bath.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, eyes roaming over the fresh cuts and bruises, lacerations and burns. Finally he straightened up and left Sherlock to his bath.

In truth, he was in excruciating pain, dulled only slightly by the warm water, giving off a false sense of healing. Tomorrow would be worse. None of it mattered. The physical, he could deal with. His body was merely a shell, still in one piece simply because his mind was able to overcome the horrors that had come to pass.

He had been a good agent. He never faltered nor wavered. He accomplished everything they threw at him. He survived. If Mycroft was at all capable of feeling, Sherlock would have hoped he felt at least a little bit glad he was still alive. Or at the very least, pleased with all he had done in the last three years. After all, Mycroft had finally gotten his wish. He had recruited his brother. And Sherlock was still alive.

He sank deeper into the tub, water pooling around his mouth and nose. No longer hot, the bath was starting to bore him, but the alternative was actually moving and that seemed an impossible task at the moment.

Mycroft returned with a towel. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to fuck off, but that too required effort. He sighed and stood as steadily as he could. He suddenly realized he couldn’t remember a time when he and Mycroft were so familiar. He mentally shrugged and stepped out of the tub. Mycroft’s hand was around his arm before he even realized he needed it. His legs nearly giving out, he automatically reached out to steady himself. He shut his eyes and refused to look at his brother. He was too exhausted to feel humiliated but Mycroft said nothing as he wrapped the large and expensive towel around his frame, stepping back only when he was sure Sherlock wouldn’t collapse at his feet.

His wet strands clung to his shoulders and he heaved a sigh.

“Haircut tomorrow, then?”

“Yes, I believe that would be wise.” Mycroft left him then, having exhausted his limit of brotherly affection. Sherlock lazily dried himself off, dropping the towel on the tiled floor. He padded slowly to the adjacent bedroom and collapsed on the £200 coverlet before blissfully passing out.

London woke him. The beautiful, melodious sounds of traffic, constantly going, horns blaring, audible even from the top floor of Mycroft’s ludicrously overpriced row house. His brain spun out of control from the sudden overload. Sherlock didn’t mind in the least.

Someone had covered him in the middle of the night. That he was unaware of the fact should have unnerved him, so used to existing in a constant state of alertness. He must have been more exhausted than he realized.

He was back in London. It hit him like a ton of bricks. Pain prickled across his skin, harsh and unforgiving. He had a mild headache but that was the least of his problems. His heart raced as he stared out the large windows, the bleak, winter sun doing nothing to thaw the cold from his core.

He looked down at his hands, weathered from the extreme climate changes in the last three years. Deserts and mountains and snow as far as the eye could see. They were shaking. It was not cold in the room, despite his state of undress. The clock read ten forty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so late.

Clean clothes lay nearby, boxer briefs, shoes too. Everything exquisitely well-made. He felt nothing as he dressed, not at all surprised everything fit quite well, despite his having lost weight during his time away. His hair still hung to his shoulders. He stared at his reflection in the oversized mirror. A well-dressed man stared back, with a Tarzan-like mop of hair and two week’s worth of facial scruff. It wasn’t particularly amusing, but a smirk found its way to his mouth.

He was ravenous as soon as he smelled the food. He tried not to hurry into the kitchen but his stomach betrayed him. Mycroft was already there, newspaper in hand, untouched croissant nearby. He looked up as Sherlock entered, eyes unreadable as he swept them over the younger man.

“Graham should be here in an hour. I suggest you eat something.”

“Who the hell is Graham?” Sherlock asked, reaching for a plump croissant.

“My barber.”

“What happened to Stanley?” I never thought you’d be rid of him.” He bit off a huge chunk, already dumping sugar into his tea.

“He passed away last year, regrettably,” Mycroft replied without taking his eyes off his newspaper.Sherlock paused in his chewing, a crease between his brow. “Oh.” They ate in silence. Or rather, Sherlock ate. And ate. Mycroft read the paper, taking a sip of tea every now and then.

His knees bopped under the table. He wasn’t even aware he was doing it until Mycroft paused to stare.

“Does father and mummy know I’m back?” It wasn’t what he wanted to ask. Not even close. But he needed to start somewhere before he lost his mind.

“I called them an hour ago. Mummy cried.”

Sherlock nodded, then picked up a biscuit. His knuckles were raw and scraped. Congealed blood formed on his index finger. He refrained from lapping at it.

“I’ve told no one else, of course,” Mycroft supplied, eyes on the paper. Sherlock sat still, stomach suddenly revolting.

“There’s no need for that,” he stated in his most condescending tone. Mycroft’s brow rose and he folded his newspaper closed just as the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be Graham,” he announced, and stood up. Sherlock sat where he was, sipping on his tea.

“Come on.”

***

Mycroft briefed him on almost everything. He stared stoically into the mirror, hardly responding. Graham was too good. You’d never even know he was gone for three years. A shame, really. Stubble gone, injuries hidden under layers of designer cloth. He could pretend nothing had changed.

Anthea was suddenly there but he didn’t spare her a glance as she handed him his beautiful Belstaff. And just like that the last three years didn’t matter. He was home.

***

That feeling of euphoria did not last long. Panic overtook him, shocking him to the core. As much as he longed to see John, he loathed the potential outcome. Mycroft didn’t give him much to work with and Sherlock didn’t think to inquire further. He kept his tone light and indifferent. And if Mycroft looked at him a beat longer than necessary, well that was his problem.

He was good at pretending. He had been pretending for three years. Pretending to be someone he was not. He enjoyed being someone else. It liberated him. Excited him. Every time he was someone else was another day that he was not Sherlock. It was bliss. Aside from the dangerous, life-threatening aspect of it all.

But as long as he was that other person, he could go on pretending his other life didn’t exist. It was all too easy, once he conditioned his mind. He played his part flawlessly, he had to admit. How many of Mycroft’s agents could speak German, or Russian, or even Cantonese? It was all too simple. And for a while it was even fun. Boredom was hardly an issue when any moment could be your last.

Nights were tough. He could control his mind while awake, blocking memories, storing them away. But while he slept (the rare, undisturbed moments) he dreamt. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only living Consulting Detective, and he had a life, chaotic as it was. And he had friends, as improbable as it sounded. And he had…

He always woke up, head pounding, heart protesting, drenched in sweat and on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. And on those nights, he lay awake trying not to think of his dreams. The dreams that were memories. Tried not to think of the face he saw. The same face he tried so very hard to keep under lock and key. It was of vital importance. So he lay in bed, in whatever seedy undercover location they forced him into, and once again tried to bury his past.

***

He sat on the bed as the sky grew darker outside. He was supposed to be surprising John. The bed was so soft and warm though. It would be so much better to sleep. He was stalling and soon Mycroft would call him out on it. He sighed, deeply. He stood and buttoned his jacket, taking one last look in the mirror. It would have to do.

***

He didn't think his nose was broken, but best to find out. He was not a vain man, but he certainly didn’t wish to walk around with a crooked nose.

Mycroft’s physician was an inch from his face as he proclaimed it not broken.

“Just bruised. But it was a close thing. Someone doesn’t like you, Mr. Holmes.” He went for levity, but he apparently didn’t know Sherlock. He backed away, cold compress at the ready.

“Thank you, doctor, “ Mycroft was saying, and suddenly they were alone again.

Sherlock turned to glare. “You could have told me.”

“I warned you that things had changed. As ever, you didn’t care to listen.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “When did this conversation happen?”

Mycroft actually rolled his eyes, a rare occurrence indeed. “On the plane. Do try to keep up, Sherlock.”

“I was barely conscious!” Sherlock scoffed. “I hadn’t slept in days and just endured a beating that you could have completely stopped. You expect me to remember what you droned on about?” He sniffed and inhaled copper. His stomach churned.

Mycroft leveled a stare. “Stop disappearing.”

Sherlock sat up straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This isn’t a game, Sherlock. Do you have any idea what your return will mean? I need you to stay focused and on task. I have work to do as do you I might add. I pulled you out for a reason. Get your head together. I have a mountain of paperwork regarding your resurrection to take care of so I advise you to stay put for the next two days and look over the information I gave you.”

Sherlock stared sullenly as Mycroft walked out of the room. Then he languidly stood and undressed down to his boxers, cringing as fabric rubbed over tender flesh. He lay flat on the bed and stared up at the linen-white coffered ceiling.

Mycroft was right. Damn it, that hurt to even think. He was acting inappropriately and it needed to stop. He needed to get back to Baker Street. He yearned for it. He would stay the night in Mycroft’s palatial abode and then head to where he really longed to be. Then he could properly think. But first…

He closed his eyes. His breathing evened out and his body was relaxed. He did not sleep. He expertly traversed the corners of his mind, flushing out every crevice he could reach. It wasn’t as difficult as he thought it would be. Three years gone in a flash and suddenly he was on that rooftop again, and John’s voice was breaking, or maybe that was his own voice. It was a jumble. It was chaos and then he was gone. Moriarty, dead in a pool of blood, and snipers and false accusations, and suddenly his life was non-existent and at least he got to say goodbye to John. At least he saw him one last time but it was not _his_ face he saw in his dreams at night. When he woke in a cold sweat and swallowed down his pained moan.

His mind opened up like a monsoon and soon he was flooded, an overload of images and dates, and locations and faces and…

He shot up, breathing erratic. He was wide awake, and always had been. This was no dream. He was back in London. He was alive. He was-.

So very much alone.

The floodgates were open and there was no stopping them.

_Greg Greg Greg_

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets as he was hit by a wave of dizziness. It was useless. Raw, untethered fear gripped him, chilled him. He had avoided this moment precisely because he knew he didn't want to feel like that. My god, he thought John would be the issue. He choked on a hysterical note. John would forgive him. It was in his nature. It would take some time and he was willing to meet him halfway. But John would come around.

But oh god, Greg… His mind provided no solution. Not enough data. Why hadn’t he asked Mycroft? No, too transparent. Not the way to go about it. He had nothing to go on. Not a shred of evidence. Was Greg still with the Met? Did he still live in the same flat? Was he finally divorced? Was he with someone new?”

His heart lurched. He was at Mycroft’s office door before he even knew he had moved.

“Come in.”

His older brother didn’t look up from his paperwork as Sherlock shuffled in, composure frayed.

“Where is Lestrade?”

It wasn’t the question, it was the tone that made Mycroft's heard jerk up. Sherlock blinked indifferently, but Mycroft was quicker.

He carefully put down his gold-plated ballpoint pen and gazed at Sherlock.

“He is still the Detective Inspector of the Metropolitan Police, if that is what you were asking.” When Sherlock’s mouth was unable to form a response, he went on.

“His place of residence has moved since his divorce almost two years ago. He is still highly regarded at the Yard and word is he is likely to make Chief Superintendent in the next few years if things continue as they have been. He and John meet up once in a while for drinks, if memory serves.”

Sherlock found himself nodding, even though the answer he was looking for was still as elusive as the man himself. Mycroft eyed him but didn’t offer anything further as he picked his pen up once more. Sherlock left, suddenly very tired.

It was three degrees celsius when he woke up but he was dying to go outside and breathe in the frosty air. He dressed, alert and anxious. He wrapped his scarf around his neck, buttoned up his coat and grabbed his gloves.

“I don’t think so.”

His hand wasn’t even on the knob yet before he heard Mycroft’s voice echo. He swirled around, eyes ablaze.

“What the hell, Mycroft?”

The elder Holmes approached, prim and dressed for the day, briefcase in hand.

“There’s no wandering about London. No one knows you’re alive yet, remember? Best keep a low profile until I’ve settled things,” he indicted to his briefcase with a little pat.

Sherlock glared. “This is ridiculous. You can’t keep me prisoner here.”

Mycroft sighed. “When I return you may go back to Baker Street. Give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. But then you must stay there until I deem it appropriate. This is important, Sherlock,” he chided, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

He didn’t wait for a response from his younger brother before departing, leaving Sherlock to seethe in silence. This was hardly the return he envisioned.

He sat on Mycroft’s sofa, fully dressed, and opened up the file he was supposed to be reading. The words blurred after about two minutes. It wasn’t boring, precisely, but it wasn’t what he wanted right now. He felt tired again, suddenly annoyed with his own body, at how easily it succombed to trivial needs such as sleep. It was ridiculous.

He threw the file down, rapidly losing interest. He took out his new mobile, pre-programmed with all the contacts he had before. There weren’t many. He rapidly flipped through names of people in his Homeless Network. Nostalgia hit him hard and he sighed, moving on to his top contacts. John. Greg. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. His thumb paused on the last name. Suddenly making up his mind and not giving a damn about the consequence, he got up and left Mycroft’s house.

Sneaking into Bart’s was not exactly difficult. He knew the hospital well, every stairwell and corridor. And it was all too simple to access Molly’s work schedule. He found his way to the changing room, and waited quietly by the lockers. Thankfully he didn’t have to loiter long.

Molly shuffled in, rubbing at her lower back. She looked tense and drawn as if she hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks. She went to her locker as he stepped out of his hiding spot.

“Hello, Molly Hooper.”

She jumped, naturally. Whirling around, her eyes were like saucers, mouth hanging open. She looked exactly the same, save for a few new creases across her forehead.

“Sherlock,” she breathed. She stood still, almost uneasy. He was no good at this but he felt his mouth turning up. That was all she needed apparently before he found an armful of Molly surrounding him. Luckily she didn’t prolong the embrace, and stepped back flushed and misty-eyed.

“Sorry,” she immediately said, wiping at her eyes. He shrugged it off because it actually didn’t bother him. Besides, he owed quite a lot to her.

“I can’t stay long. I’m actually supposed to be holed up at Mycroft's. But I wanted to come here and let you know I’ve returned. Before word got out.”

She nodded solemnly, eyes ghosting over the varied injuries on Sherlock’s face. They stopped on the freshest looking one.

“What happened?” She meekly asked, concern evident in her tone.

“Oh that,” he pointed to his nose. “That was John.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she simply said, as if that conveyed everything. “And you’re back to stay?”

He waited a beat before nodding, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him just yet. She offered another smile that was both relieved and sad. He suddenly needed to go away.

“I have to get back.” He turned to leave but no, that wasn’t quite right. There was something he needed to do, to say. He looked at Molly, really looked at her, his mouth floundering.

“Molly…”

“I know, Sherlock. And you’re welcome.”

He blinked and closed his mouth, suddenly very uncomfortable. He nodded once and walked away, grateful for Molly’s discretion. He should have felt better. He should have felt relieved and unburdened, but for some reason, he felt listless and uneasy as he took a cab back to Mycroft’s.

He suddenly wanted his violin. It had been over three years since he’d touched it but he longed for it now. He wanted to pluck at the fine strings and caress the smooth finish and just lose himself in some melancholy tune, let his mind wander.

He wondered if it was still at Baker Street. Doubtful. He couldn’t picture Mycroft leaving it there to collect dust. Not when he so painstakingly tracked one down for Sherlock all those years ago and had it pristinely restored to its former glory. One of a kind. They all were, really, but for Sherlock it was an escape. And right then it was exactly what he needed.

He texted Mycroft as soon as he got to his house.

_Where is my Strad? SH_

_In the bedroom wardrobe, if you’d bothered to look. MH_

He frowned and went inside the guest room that Mycroft placed Sherlock in and opened the wardrobe. He found the case on the top shelf. Sighing, he carefully retrieved it and set it on the bed. He clicked the case open and gingerly picked up his violin, inspecting it from top to bottom. Satisfied, he removed the bow from the case and for the next hour he was in a world of his own.

***

Mycroft returned at eight, a take away bag in his hand. Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as he stared at the improbable sight. Even with the barest of glances he recognized the logo from his favourite Indian place. He tampered down his mental salivation.

“Did you actually set foot inside to pick that up?” he asked, notes and photos surrounding him from all sides. Mycroft looked down at the mess with a wrinkle on his brow.

“Don’t be silly, Sherlock. That’s what Anthea is for.”

Sherlock smirked. “Oh is that what she’s for now?”

Mycroft leveled a look. “What is that supposed to mean?” He walked over to the open kitchen and set the bag down, the smell wafting through the entire home deliciously.

“Oh, please. As if you keep her around to run errands for you,” Sherlock replied with a lascivious raise of his brow. Mycroft didn’t seem amused.

“Don’t be crass, Sherlock. I’m not even sure where this is coming from.” The older brother removed his Brooks Brothers jacket, carefully draping it over the back of a chair.

Sherlock didn’t know why he was bating his brother. But a sudden, vicious need to hurt him surfaced, and he was finding it difficult to tamper it down. Mycroft had just bought him dinner for god’s sake and there he was purposely goading him. What the hell was wrong with him?

He just needed an outlet to release everything pressing against him. And at the moment, Mycroft was it. There was no alternative. Not anymore. His heart prickled uncomfortably.

“Look, I’ll do this stupid job for you, one last job for you. But don’t expect me to feel grateful in any way just because you’ve brought me back and gave me some new clothes and bought me food from across town and set me up in your ridiculous guest suite and saved my violin and-”

“Sherlock. What are you talking about?”

Sherlock sprang up. “Three years! Three bloody years, Mycroft! I disassembled Moriarty’s network! A long time ago. It didn’t take me three damn years and you kept me there, you kept me in there you bastard! While you got to go on living your posh little existence and I slept in shithole after infested shithole..

“My life is gone, Mycroft. I have nothing left here. Nothing except my flat that I apparently have you to thank for keeping the rent going. John most likely wants nothing further to do with me, and my business is gone. Forgive me if I don’t exactly sound grateful,” he finished bitterly.

Mycroft stood very still, eyes unnervingly blank. He slowly crossed his arms, grating on every single one of Sherlock’s nerve endings.

“What did you expect would happen, Sherlock? That life would go on as it had three years ago?” His eyes grew cold. “I did warn you. All those years ago. Don’t get cocky. Lay low. And what did you do? You claimed the interest of James Moriarty, the most dangerous individual in the world. You bated him, and toyed with him. What did you think would happen? Your fall was your own doing, Sherlock. It was inevitable.”

Sherlock felt cold all over. His eyes bored into Mycroft’s, incredulous and shocked and for a moment, silence reigned.

“You helped me,” he finally said in a hoarse whisper. “You aided me. You kept my cover. If you were so against what happened then why did you even bother-”

“Because you’re my brother!” Mycroft bellowed, shocking the both of them. He took a few seconds to compose himself before meeting Sherlock’s eyes once more.

“What would you have had me do? I used every resource I could get my hands on to assist you. And I would do it all over again. You are alive. You are home. Everything else will have to wait. In time, people will come around. And you being ungrateful is not entirely news to me, Sherlock.”

That unhinged something within Sherlock. He looked down at the floor (Wenge, three quarters inch thick, expensive) and swallowed hard, his whole body hurting.

“I apologise,” he managed after realizing Mycroft was once again, right. He was absolutely right. If he never got tangled up with Moriarty, none of this would have happened. His stubbornness and pride was to blame. His lack of control and ignorance of the consequences. This was all on him and he was taking it out on the wrong person. He couldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes. He was an absolute mess inside. He needed…

No. That was an unachievable thought. That life was gone.

“Sherlock.”

His eyes darted over, the voice authoritative and impossible to ignore. But it was not a condescending Mycroft he found staring back at him with such intensity. He frowned at the rare, unreserved look on his brother’s face, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“I tried to get you out sooner, Sherlock,” he said. “I tried but you were always two steps ahead of everyone, me included. I couldn’t even locate you half the time. I used every form of intel I could to track you only to come out with not a whisper of your whereabouts. There were days when I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. I didn’t leave you there, Sherlock. I didn’t intend to-” he sputtered, uncharacteristically flustered.

“As soon as we located you I knew I had to go in. I had to see you in person. I had to get you out. I am sorry you had to suffer through that. You did well, Sherlock. No agent could have done it better.”

Sherlock didn’t move. Couldn’t move. An apology and praise all in one sentence? All in one day? He needed to sit down. He was at a loss as to how to process it all. He couldn’t recall the last time a word of apology had passed Mycroft’s lips. Years, decades. He was probably in nappies. But what struck him more was the praiseworthy tone, something he secretly ached to hear but never in a million years thought it would actually happen. He was just a pawn after all, one of Mycroft’s many.

_“You’re my brother, Sherlock.”_

Well, maybe not like the others after all. He felt himself nodding because speaking was out of the question and he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. Then they quietly sat down for a slightly cool but nevertheless delicious meal of garlic naan and mango curry, kabobs and masala lamb. It was the best meal he’d had in years.

***

The smell of dust and leather greeted him as he stepped inside 221B Baker Street for the first time in almost three years. Despite everything, he felt instantly soothed, surprised at the amount of various emotions coursing through him at present. He swallowed and took a grand sweep of the room.

Someone had been there, and recently too. He already knew it was John. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it after she was able to coherently speak once more. His ears were still ringing from his reveal. Still, even without hearing her say it he would have known it. The very faint smell of his favourite aftershave clung in the air, mixing with the layers of dust and grime.

Mycroft had debated over the years whether to have someone clean and dust every so often, but decided against it, so as never to attract any suspicion. He smirked as he envisioned his next text.

_‘Send a cleaning crew. ASAP’_

He longed to touch everything, to catalogue every surface and article. Most of his things were gone; science equipment, petri dishes, body parts. Mrs. Hudson mentioned she didn’t have the heart to go through it all and deposited everything(non-perishable) in 221C. He was so very glad for Mrs. Hudson.

He kindly refused her offer to fuss over him, declining tea and biscuits. He just wanted to be alone for a while. Of course as soon as he set foot in his bedroom that changed, and a strange feeling of longing filled him deeply and suddenly. He didn’t know what was happening to him. Ever since his return he was prone to bouts of unease, strange heart murmurs and queasiness.

He shrugged off his coat, dropping it on the dusty coverlet. Sighing, he went back out to the living room and spent the rest of the night working on the case.

***

      _Send a cleaning crew. ASAP. SH_

***

Mycroft stopped by twice in two days. Once to inspect the state of the flat after the hurried cleaning job that Sherlock insisted was vital to continue working on the case. And the second time to simply check in. Sherlock made him play Operation. Mycroft had acquiesced without so much as a fight, leaving Sherlock both pleased and suspicious.

After he had gone, Mrs Hudson scurried in again for a bit of a chat. Most of what she said was of no surprise or consequence, but he allowed her to jabber on. That was of course, until a topic he was trying to avoid came up.

“So of course you’ve seen John and you mentioned Molly but what about Greg, dear?”

He froze mid-sip of his Twinings and hoped the tremors of his fingers weren’t noticeable.

“What about him?”

She frowned. “Well I thought surely you would have gone to see him after you returned. After all, you’ve known him for years.” She tsked suddenly, eyes going sad. “You should have seen him at the funeral.”

He placed his cup down on the saucer, insides turning to ice. He was on the verge of telling her to mind her own business, but his heart wasn’t in it. And he couldn’t do that to Mrs. Hudson. He put on his best deprecating smiled.

“I doubt very much he’d care to see me, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure he has more important things to be getting on with. The last thing the potential Chief Inspector needs is to be seen with someone like me.”

She looked at him with a mixture of sadness and pity that Sherlock could barely abide so he got up and went to the kitchen to dump the remainder of his tea out.

“They’ll all forgive you, Sherlock,” she gently said. “John will, if he hasn’t already. And Greg will too. I’d just hate for him to be the last to know. Something like this is best coming from the source.” She patted him on the shoulder when he didn’t respond, and took her leave.

***

He sat in his chair, head down, for what felt like hours. Then, making up his mind, he texted Mycroft.

      _Where is Lestrade? Right now? SH_

_Remember what I said about laying low? MH_

       _Mycroft… SH_

_Give me a moment. MH_

***

He tried for levity. It was the only was he was going to get through it because he didn’t know of any other way. He watched covertly as Lestrade lit a cigarette, taking a deep puff. A profound swelling of nostalgia brimmed beneath the surface, threatening to throw Sherlock off balance. He stomped it down, taking a deep breath.

“You know those can kill you.”

Time stilled. He held his breath, the blood pumping in his ears.

“Oh you _bastard_.”

The embrace was unexpected but it was frightening how simple it was. How much he enjoyed the comfort. How his heart lurched painfully as his own fingers clung to armfuls of _Greg_. And just like that, it was gone.

Lestrade pulled away, and for once in his life, Sherlock couldn’t get a read on him. Absolutely nothing. The eyes staring back at him were familiar; dark, stormy, brilliant, and entirely closed off. Sherlock thought _shock,_ at first, but as those inscrutable eyes looked back at him, understanding finally materialized. He swallowed and took a step back as well.

“Lestrade, I-” and that was about as far as he got as Greg took another step back. They might as well have been on opposite ends of the earth.

“Please,” he tried again, hating the slight tremor in his voice. “I can explain. Please.”

Lestrade continued to stare at him, giving up nothing. And then he blinked and looked away, an incredulous expression blooming on his face. His mouth turned up but not in mirth. It turned mocking and cynical, and he licked his bottom lip in debate, then thought better of it as he dropped his unused cigarette, and twisted away. He didn’t spare another glance as he steadily marched out of sight.

Sherlock didn’t dare go after him. He wouldn’t even know what to do. He stood in the same spot for a few moments, going over every second of their interaction and finding nothing of use. Still, he didn’t need his mind to tell him how horribly wrong it all went. His hands shook uncontrollably and his heart was racing painfully. He took a deep breath and found his throat constricted. He swirled around and briskly walked away, despising himself for his lack of control.

Baker Street offered no comfort. He couldn’t play his violin because his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and it was too late to go and bother Mrs. Hudson for her company. He felt positively ill, the thought of food or drink churning his stomach instantly.

He paced restlessly until midnight, stopping only to chain smoke out his bedroom window. Then he paced some more until it became so late it might as well have been morning. In the stillness of the night, he picked up his mobile.

       _Are you awake? SH_

_I am always awake. MH_

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing. But his fingers were moving.

      _Can I come by? SH_

The pause was minuscule but palpable. His hands continued to shake.

      _Of course. MH_

***

Mycroft didn’t say a word. He just made some tea and set it in front of Sherlock who stared at the swirling liquid like it contained all the answers he seeked. Sherlock glanced at the wall clock. Three a.m. He didn’t offer an apology, just took a sip of his tea, sweetened to perfection. The cup rattled subtly against his teeth, his hands refusing to cooperate. He noticed Mycroft staring but thankfully nothing was forthcoming.

_Pull yourself together for god’s sake._

He smacked his lips together, placing the cup back on its matching saucer. “So I’m surprised mummy hasn’t called yet,” he said to just say something, and was glad his voice didn’t waiver.

Mycroft blinked. “She has. Numerous times. She didn’t want to bother you just yet so she’s been in contact with me.” He paused to roll his eyes, taking a sip of his own tea. “They are actually going to be in town shortly. It cannot be avoided,” he said with mock solemnity.

Sherlock sighed, nodding anyway. He did miss his parents. He could survive a short visit, he supposed. Mycroft apparently had exhausted his supply of patience. He braced his arms on his commercial-grade quartz countertop and leveled Sherlock with a look.

“Sherlock, as much as I am enjoying our little chat, why don’t you tell me what brought you here?”

Sherlock slowly blinked up at his brother, eyes narrow and mocking.

“As if you don’t already know,” he stated in a low tenor.

Mycroft barely constrained the sigh brimming at the surface as he straightened back up and casually placed his hands inside his trouser pockets.

“I will just assume that things did not go well with the inspector.”

Sherlock said nothing, his eyes glued to his tea. Why had he come here? This was pathetic. It was practically a mantra in his head.

_Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic_. That was who he was. Ever since he set foot back in London. That’s all he felt. He didn’t even recognize himself. For the first time in years he wished for a needle in his arm, soothing away all his problems. As soon as the thought took root it was all he could think about. He wouldn’t really go through with it though. As welcome as it would be- and oblivion sounded positively lovely right at the moment- he couldn’t actually picture himself going down that route again. But still, the appeal was there.

“Sherlock.”

He looked up at his brother and found a warning there. He followed Mycroft’s eyes and he wasn’t even aware he was slowly grazing his finger over his inner wrist, mindlessly tracing the invisible scars under his clothing. He quickly sat back in his chair, trying to blink away the haze from his mind.

“I’m tired. I better go.” He stood and realized it was actually true, his body lacking stamina or energy.

“Sherlock. Lestrade will come around. So will John. They all will, once they know. Once they realize what you did.”

Sherlock blinked lazily at him, as if mentally willing his brother to understand. He wanted to scream, _don’t you get it? It doesn’t matter why I did what I did! It doesn’t matter because you still can’t change the fact that I did…_

But instead he said, “Thank you for the tea,” and went home.

***

The hours passed listlessly, the days blurred by and Sherlock worked. He worked because that was his purpose. He was good at working. At solving. He needed to stay engaged because it was all he had left. Mycroft stopped by at some point but Sherlock was too consumed by the case that he didn’t even bother to ask what he wanted.

He didn’t eat. He barely slept. He sometimes talked to Mrs. Hudson. His phone remained silent.

And then Mycroft was calling him.

“It’s time.”

And suddenly he was famous again. It was a miracle. Sherlock Holmes was alive! And still no one called.

***

Molly stopped by, bearing sweets and coffee, even though she knew he didn’t eat while on a case. So of course he ate an entire pastry, much to her delight. It felt...nice. The company was not unwelcome. She did most of the talking and for once he didn’t mind the mindless chatter and her mousy voice. She gave him a hug as she left, never uttering a word about John or his resurrection or what he’d been up to in the last three years. It was a pleasant afternoon.

That same evening Mary, John’s fiancé, paid him a frantic visit. John had gone missing and the only clue was a skip code on her mobile regarding his whereabouts. Adrenaline through the roof they raced off into the night and after a horrifying conclusion, John was in his grasp and safe, though the feeling of panic and fear didn’t dissipate for hours. He didn’t sleep a wink that night as John was admitted to the hospital briefly for observation.

***

He had completely forgotten of course, that his parents were stopping by. With John and the case and a million other things on his mind, he was not exactly thrilled by their appearance, but he couldn’t very well turn them away after not seeing them in over three years.

Tears flowed freely, but thankfully briefly. He didn’t even offer them refreshments. So preoccupied, he wasn’t aware that an hour had passed with them droning in the background as he mulled things over in his mind.

And then John was there in the flat-actually, physically there!- and he was shuffling his parents out the door as quickly as humanly possible. He really was pleased to see them, but still, there were far more pressing matters.

John looked in one piece, and a thousand words were on the tip of his tongue but he refrained from speech because the last time he uttered a word he was painfully abandoned, and if it happened with John he might as well go back to that Serbian prison and let them finish their work on him. He placed his hands behind his back, clenching them tightly.

It was awkward. It was never so with John. Never with John. But three years was a long time and John had changed. He was more guarded, reserved.

“Sorry if I interrupted something,” John said since one of them had to say something.

Sherlock waved off the apology. “Oh that was nothing, just my parents,” and the bemused look he gave Sherlock was both charming and familiar, and he nearly looked away because that awful twinge in his chest made its presence known, throwing him off balance.

They talked for a while. John talked of Mary and his eyes lit up every so often. He didn’t ask where Sherlock had been and Sherlock didn’t supply information. Mrs. Hudson showed up and cried a bit before excusing herself, and Sherlock and John shared an amused grin. All in all, it was not a bad way to end his evening.

***

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew it would take more than the miracle of his return for people to trust him again. For John to see him like he used to be and not as some crazed maniac who faked his own death.

He sat in his lonely flat while the rain poured buckets outside. He felt chilled and despondent as he turned his iPhone around and around in his hands. His head hurt from overthinking everything, so with a deep resigned sigh, he opened up a new text window and started to type. Because, he had nothing left to lose at this point.

      _Greg. I need to talk to you. SH_

An hour passed sitting in the same spot without a word of response.

      _Five minutes. Please. SH_

The tightening in his chest increased with every passing moment until he grew numb from sitting idle, phone clenched in his grip. The rain continued to fall. The clock continued to turn. And his phone remained silent.

***

His neck was stiff when he woke up and he annoyingly realized he must’ve fallen asleep in his chair. Still fully dressed he stretched and went to stand. His mobile dropped unseen from his lap and landed hard on the carpeting. He frowned as he picked it up and only then noticed the unread text message. Pulse going erratic, he opened it up.

      _Meet me at the Yard. 10 a.m._

He sat back down, a thousand thoughts whirling like a hurricane in his mind. With trembling fingers he slowly typed out a response.

      _All right. SH_

He checked the time and realized he had about two hours to get ready. He must have slept longer than he realized. The rain still pounded relentlessly but it didn’t dampen his mood. Not that morning. He showered, shaved and for some reason stood in front of his wardrobe longer than usual picking out his outfit. Mycroft had ordered some clothing for him since he hardly had time since his return to go shopping.

He picked out a dark grey suit and a seashell-white dress shirt. He looked himself over in the floor-length mirror, wondering why he wasn’t able to calm his nerves. He sighed finally, ruffled his hair, found his scarf and overcoat, and left for the Yard.

***

Every single head swiveled in his direction as he opened the main doors and took a step inside. He paused, not for dramatics, but because a wave of nostalgia blasted him unexpectedly. The glaring fluorescent lights, the little cubicles all situated like a maze, the awful muddy grey carpeting.

He swallowed and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and forced himself to move one foot in front of the other. People balked. Officers with their mouths hanging open and aborted phone calls as the receivers floated away from their ears...It was certainly an amusing scene to behold.

He looked straight ahead though, truly not wanting to draw attention. He was almost to Lestrade’s door before he was suddenly blocked.

Sally Donovan. His insides turned to molten lava. His brows climbed to his hairline in question.

“Sergeant Donovan. How lovely to see you,” he automatically quipped, derision dripping from every syllable. She looked positively livid.

“Well looks like the rumours were true after all.”

“So sorry to disappoint, Sally,” he stated and made to step around her.

“You’re pathetic, Holmes. Why’d you even bother coming back here? You can’t just show up and pretend like nothing’s happened.”

His eyes turned cold; he’d had enough playing games. “I was invited.” He didn’t wait for her reaction. He side-stepped around her and walked the few remaining feet to Lestrade’s door. He would have wanted a moment to compose himself before entering, but she was still standing there glaring at him, he could feel it. So he purposefully grabbed the knob and turned it, without bothering to knock.

Lestrade was at his desk, head down, writing something up. Sherlock swallowed, shutting the door behind him and was about to sit down in his old chair that he’d sat in hundreds of times, but his feet suddenly wouldn’t cooperate and he ended up rooted at the spot, staring down at Lestrade.

“Sit,” came the command a few seconds later. Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and finally sank down in the chair. For a moment, nothing but the ticking of the wall clock and Lestrade’s pen scratching could be heard. Sherlock took that time to observe Lestrade.

There was quite a bit more grey in his hair and it was about half an inch longer than he was used to wearing it. From the angle, he could see the various little lines on his forehead and around his eyes that were not there three years ago. He looked overall thinner, maybe by six or seven pounds- hard to tell while he was sitting. His hands looked slightly tan, fingernails trimmed to near perfect crescents. He looked away.

Lestrade shuffled his papers, straightening them out and then moved them out of the way. Only then did he look at Sherlock.

“Well look what the cat dragged in.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. Lestrade’s face was closed-off and completely indecipherable. Even his statement, clearly meant to be caustic and sarcastic was lacking in emotion.

“Hello, Greg.”

The smallest of ticks danced on Lestrade’s face, just near his temple. Sherlock swallowed and suddenly felt warm all over. He slowly stood and removed his jacket, not entirely unaware of the scrutiny he was getting. He haphazardly draped the coat over his chair and sat back down, unwinding his scarf. Lestrade sat forward, face blank yet cool, fingers intertwined on top of his desk.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he lamely began. Oh god this was so utterly over his head. He wiped at his brow.

“Yea well, Mycroft already called me, filled me in.”

Sherlock froze. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?” He hoped he didn’t sound as hysterical as he felt.

Lestrade’s brow furrowed, just a little. “That you had to fake your own death in order for Moriarty’s guys to stop from assassinating myself, John and Mrs. Hudson.”

He stated it so clinically, Sherlock grew uneasy and nervous.

“What else did he say?”

Lestrade stared back at him and Sherlock could barely stand the lack of feeling in those eyes. They were empty. They were...not Greg.

“That you were working for him for the last three years undercover trying to uncover Moriarty’s web. Looks like you succeeded. I assume that’s why you came back.”

Sherlock suddenly had to leave. He absolutely couldn’t handle a single moment of this conversation. But he didn’t budge a muscle.

“It was a highly successful mission,” he finally said without energy. “But of course I couldn’t get away without doing Mycroft’s work as well,” he added as a poor attempt at humour.

“Well, I can only imagine the things you had to do,” Lestrade said, eyes turning to stone. “In fact, I can’t imagine a single thing you wouldn’t do to win at something.”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He looked away, down at his hands, trembling in his lap. He clasped them together to hide the tremors, as a wave of exhaustion slammed into him.

“I did what I had to,” he heard himself say and he looked up, meeting Greg’s stoney eyes. The older man sat perfectly still, staring at Sherlock like he’d never seen him before.

“Well, I hope it was all worth it,” Lestrade replied, and stood up, grabbing his jacket. He put it on and spared a glance at the solemn figure in the chair. “I’m sure you remember your way out,” he said as he buttoned up his jacket and walked out. Outside the glass box Sherlock could practically feel every eye boring into his back.

He stoically stood and grabbed his coat, flinging it on. Head held high he walked out of the Yard as a hush fell over the place once more. It wasn’t until he got inside the cab did his facade crumble and he was reaching for a cigarette.

***

He put all his energy into working. It was what mattered most. It was always supposed to come first. Everything else was rubbish. Unimportant. Waste of time. Transport.

He sighed as his body twinged. The more prominent of injuries were starting to fade and the bruising was turning interesting shades of colours. Still, there seemed a constant soreness that wouldn’t abate and his headaches increased from lack of sleep. He didn’t dare sleep long because then the nightmares started up. It was too exhausting to try to block them so not sleeping was the only viable solution.

He used to go days without sleeping. Surely he just needed more time to get back into the swing of things. He craned his neck, even as his eyes drooped lower. He smoked some more.

John stopped by the next day to ‘check in’. Sherlock couldn’t contain the surprise on his face. They were both looking over the case notes when they had a breakthrough, or rather, Sherlock did. Still, it felt like old times again, just the two of them working a case, though this one escalated rather quickly.

Turned out their suspect was about to blow up all of Parliament via a secret underground tube station, long since out of commission. Sherlock immediately pounced on the find, inadvertently dragging John along with him. He sent off a text to Lestrade because after all, if was Parliament.

***

John sat, near panting, a murderous gleam in his eye that didn’t dissipate as the hours progressed. Sherlock was feeling a bit queasy himself after what happened but his elation from solving the case to John pretty much confessing his forgiveness to Sherlock was keeping him upright and peppy.

“Thank you, John,” he finally told him after a barrage of police and agents crawled all around the scene, leaving them in the background.

“You’re still an utter cock, you know.”

Sherlock smirked. “Always.”

John shook his head but the smile didn’t fade. His eye caught something though and Sherlock turned to follow his gaze, and immediately his good mood faded. John waved.

“Greg!”

Lestrade marched forward, phone in hand. He didn’t so much as glance at Sherlock as he approached.

“John. Look at you. Back where you started.” It was meant as a joke, at least for John. But Sherlock understood it for what it was. A rebuke. As if he sullied John all over just by coming back. As if John didn’t have a brain of his own or a will of his own. He looked down at his feet as John huffed out a disbelieving laugh.

“Well looks like somebody hasn’t lost their touch,” Lestrade finally addressed Sherlock. He quirked his lip, a cool, mirthless action that John missed entirely.

“Alright, you two. I need a brief statement, though I’ll need to see you both back at the Met at some point for a proper interview.”

And just like that, Sherlock went into deduction mode, listing fact upon fact, details and timelines and reiterating what would have happened if they did not show and stop the bomb in time.

Lestrade wrote a few things in his note pad, a crease in his brow the entire time. He heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Right, I think I have what I need for the time being. Thanks,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “I have to get back, why don’t you two get on home.” Lestrade looked like he wished to be anywhere but there. John nodded.

“Hey, you still up for that pint on Tuesday?” John suddenly asked Greg. The older man paused to think it over briefly, then offered a quick smile.

“Yea, definately. See you then, John.” And he was off. Sherlock blinked as John led the way out.

“Do you see Lestrade often?” he had to ask. John nodded. “Yeah, we try to get together once a week or so for a drink. Watch a game.” He shrugged. “It’s nice. He lives alone so sometimes I head over to his place and watch TV or just hang out for a bit.” He said it like it was no big deal, like it was such a commonplace occurrence. But what he didn’t realize was that with every word, Sherlock felt his heart constrict to the point that a response was impossible. Thankfully, John wasn’t looking for one.

They made it up out of the tube station and back on the street. John clasped Sherlock on the shoulder as he took his leave. Back to Mary. To his new life. And Sherlock turned and headed the opposite way, back to Baker Street, all the while trying not to mourn the life he left behind.

  


 


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! Back to Lestrade's POV for this chapter.

Every morning since the return was the same. Before his eyes fully opened but after consciousness hit, there was just one thought, repeating over and over.

_Sherlock is alive._

Weeks had passed, and life went on. And every single moment he was crushed all over again.

_Sherlock is alive._

_Not Dead._

His mind couldn’t come to terms with it. There were some things that were impossible to fully grasp and he just couldn’t wrap his brain around the fact. So he would wake up, shower and get dressed and go to work. The same routine he’d established for the past three years. The only difference was the constant buzzing in his mind that refused to settle down.

It didn’t matter where he went. Whether it was at work, or at the shops, or at the dry cleaners. Sherlock’s face was plastered on every paper and gossip rag, constantly staring him down. He couldn’t escape him if he wanted to.

Work was torture because everyone seemed to think the news bore repeating. He was constantly assaulted with questions and theories and nonsense to the point that he considered taking a holiday just to be rid of everyone.

If anyone noticed his lack of communication regarding his former Consulting Detective, no one bothered to comment on it. Well, except for Sally of course.

Two weeks into the debacle she had to randomly chime in as they were going over some case notes.

“What kind of a nutter fakes their death?” She scoffed as she took a bite of her sandwich. He lost his appetite immediately. His lack of response didn’t deter her. “I mean, who does that, really? And what about all the stuff that happened before he left? Won’t there even be an investigation? He did pull a gun on half the squad.”

No. There would not be an investigation. That was directly from Mycroft and he didn’t even need to ask questions to realize everything had already been settled. He forced himself to take a bite.

“Can we focus, please?” he asked, irritation clear in his voice. She glanced up in question.

“I know he was your friend, sir. I get that, but he’s clearly not right in the head.”

Was your friend.

He clenched his teeth, but he forced some semblance of calm into his tone. “And the world was clearly wrong about him being a fraud. So none of what Sherlock does should come as a surprise.” He took another bite of his lunch and picked up a document, plainly putting an end to the conversation. Sally frowned but said nothing further.

***

“Sorry I’m late, he said as he arrived at the pub, ten minutes after their set time. John waved him off. “No, it’s fine, I ordered for you,” he said, indicating the second glass on the table.

“Thanks, that’s just what I need right now.” He gulped half the pint down in ten seconds. John stared.

“Bad day, huh.”

Every day, he wanted to say.

“Mmm. Not the best.” He liked hanging out with John, something he’d never before imagined would be possible. But death had a certain way of bringing people together. He frowned into his glass.

This was the second time they’d gotten together since Sherlock’s return. The first time he faked a migraine less than half an hour in when all John wanted to talk about was Sherlock. He couldn’t handle the overload. He prayed tonight would be different. But he doubted it. John looked a million times better than he had in years. Even since finding Mary. Something had lifted from him and he looked younger, more energized. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

They talked about random things for a while. How the wedding plans were going, which venues they’ve toured, and a potential honeymoon spot. Lestrade nodded at all the appropriate moments and chimed in with a joke or two when necessary. He offered some info about a new show he’s been watching and a new restaurant he found that had excellent tapas. John smiled and nodded.

Three pints in, John dropped the bomb hanging over their heads.

“Greg, I need to ask you something. And you can tell me to piss off at any time and I’ll understand,” he warned with a crease in his brow. Lestrade thinned his lips and downed his beer, immediately calling for another.

“Ask away,” he said, resigned. He sat back against the fake leather of the booth, slouched and subdued.

“Why are you avoiding Sherlock?”

Hmm. Where to begin answering that question.

“Why do you think I’m avoiding Sherlock?”

John gave him a look that could curdle milk. “Greg. I’m not blind, and I’m not an idiot. And I thought we were friends,” he said quietly. Lestrade looked down at the dingy tabletop, licking his lips.

“What did Sherlock say?” he asked because he didn’t know where to start. John’s shoulders shrugged imperceptibly.

“Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He won’t mention you by name. And every time I bring you up he closes up and disappears. Figuratively, of course. He just- he won’t let me in. He won’t say a word. Either that or he changes the subject, constantly.”

Lestrade swallowed, prickles of pain piercing his entire body. He didn’t want to lie to John. John was his friend, and he’d been a good friend to him. But he didn’t know how to articulate what he felt without revealing...more.

He shrugged and hoped for the best. “Sherlock jumped off a building and made the whole world believe he was dead for three years. I’m sorry if I can’t exactly forgive him for that just yet.” He smacked his lips and immediately got to work on his newly delivered pint.

John sat stoically for a while. “I get that. I do. And that’s a fair answer.”

Lestrade’s eyes met his, narrowing with each word. “But?”

John looked at him steadily. “But I told you I wasn’t an idiot, Greg.”

Lestrade stilled, blinking. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.” John sighed, looking away, jaw working. Lestrade knew that look all too well. He suddenly didn’t care for the inquisition.

“Come on, John. You can’t be okay with this. How are you not livid? You of all people-- you watched him jump off a fucking building!” his raised voice was drawing a few looks but he was just too far gone to care.

“I saw his fucking cold body on a slab, John. Don’t tell me you don’t still see his face. The _blood_. This is not okay, John. I am not okay with any of this.” He drank some more as John stayed silent, eyes closed off.

“You know why he had to do it,” John finally said near whisper. Lestrade scoffed.

“Yeah, he saved our lives. I feel so grand now,” he spat, bitterness dripping from every word.

“You asked me how I could forgive him?” John leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. “What Sherlock did was the most selfless thing I’ve ever seen. He threw his entire life away to protect ours. Yours. Mrs. Hudson’s. I will never forget what he did. That hurt will never go away, not for a long time anyway. But I will remember why he did it. And that’s why I’ve forgiven him. He lost everything too that day.”

Lestrade’s head hurt. He was shaking, anger brimming. John must have noticed because he was suddenly standing up, dropping some money on the table, and telling Lestrade it was time to go.

They stepped outside as they waited for a cab, his head pounding mercilessly.

“I’m sorry, Greg. I didn’t mean for tonight to go like this. I won’t bring it up again.”

Lestrade sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I don’t question why you forgave him. That’s your business, and for what it’s worth, I’m glad things are working out. You deserve it, John.” And he meant it.

“What about you, Greg. What do you deserve?” Oh, John. Ever the protector. He sighed and stared up at the black sky, stars barely visible there in the city.

“Does anyone ever get what they deserve?”

***

The case was a particularly brutal one. Four family members shot dead execution-style. No murder weapon found. No motive. No suspects. They’d been at it for a week with no further developments. Discouraged and out of options, he positively itched to call Sherlock.

He knew what would happen. He’d call him, Sherlock would come, like nothing had happened, and he’d solve the case. Just like old times. And that thought stopped him from going through with his plan every time. Because it wasn’t like old times. Those times were long gone. Everything was different now, no matter how many people around him pretended everything was dandy.

So he worked until all hours of the night, hardly ate and exhausted his brain until it hurt to think. And still they came up with nothing. Frustrating did not even begin to describe the mood at the Yard. And then one evening, as he hung his head in dismay in his office, his phone chimed.

Frowning, he automatically glanced down and his heart plummeted as he recognized the number.

_I looked over a copy of the Rosewood file. Check the next door neighbor’s statement again. The timeline doesn’t add up. There is forty-five minutes that he can’t account for. (Pg 8, paragraph 3). SH_

He cursed out loud and scanned his contacts. Finding what he was looking for he dialed. Texting would take too long for this.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

“Don’t fucking try it, Mycroft. What were you thinking, giving Sherlock my files? And I don’t even want to know how you acquired them so quickly. This is such bullshit,” he seethed.

“Sherlock is currently between clients and I’m aware of your struggles at present. I’d have thought you wanted to find out who murdered that entire family.”

Lestrade glared at nothing, knuckles bone-white around his mobile.

“You had no right. This doesn’t concern you. Or him. He doesn’t consult for us anymore. He might as well be a civilian in this matter. Now kindly tell Sherlock I will not be needing his assistance.”

He hung up before he lost his nerve and his cool. And then, because there was no point debating it or considering it, he went to check on Sherlock’s tip. Forty-eight hours later, they had their suspect in custody.

***

He chain-smoked outside the Yard, in an alleyway that he once shared with Sherlock. He tried not to dwell on that as he debated his next step. The arrest was all over the news. Not even Sherlock could have missed it. He knew he should at least acknowledge his participation. He knew it was the right thing to do.

He dropped his cigarette and stomped on it, fiddling with his mobile. He kept looking down at the name. He must have had over a thousand texts from Sherlock from years back. He saved every single one, for no particular reason. He used to look at the random texts sometimes after Sherlock’s _death_. He would read the words and recall the snarky tone and try to visualize the man behind the words. When he felt alone at night, and couldn’t sleep, he’d scan down the messages and read them all until it made him drowsy. It didn’t make him feel better, but he was glad then he had saved them all. It was all he had left of Sherlock.

He went back to work without writing anything. Sherlock didn’t do this for the praise. He did it to show off. As much as he knew that wasn’t completely true, it made him feel justified not thanking him. He didn’t even ask for his help. He felt a bit ugly inside for thinking it, but found he didn’t care.

***

“So watch any good crap telly lately?”

John laughed, shaking his head. “Most everything is crap. Mary likes to watch a lot of TV. Oh well, as long as she doesn’t make me watch one of her soaps I’m fine with whatever she wants to do.” He took a swig of his beer and relaxed against the cushions.

They were at Lestrade’s that evening, neither of them in the mood for a loud pub. It was nice. Between long hours at work and trying to get everything else done, he’d hardly had time for a private life. It was rare to get together with anyone, save for John. He actually couldn’t remember the last time he went out with anyone else. He found he didn’t mind. He wasn’t usually the best company anyway.

John didn’t demand a lot, conversation included. It was nice just to be able to relax in someone’s company. Although looking at John now he couldn’t avoid _not_ seeing Sherlock. It’s like they came as a pair and even if the other wasn’t present you still knew it existed. He tried his best to relax and enjoy his evening off.

John’s mobile went off. He glanced down at it and frowned, then shook his head in bemusement. He typed something and put his phone away.

“Sorry. That was Sherlock. He couldn’t find his extra slides.”

Lestrade kept his eyes on the telly. “I thought you didn’t live there anymore.”

John grinned sheepishly. “Yeah well I was helping Sherlock move all his stuff back into the flat from 221C and might have rearranged some things. I’m surprised he hasn’t called earlier. I’m not sure what he does all day when he doesn’t have a case or not experimenting on something.”

Lestrade’s heart lurched like it did every time he thought of Sherlock back at Baker Street. He took a swig of his beer, perfectly aware of John’s gaze in his periphery.

“Greg.”

“Don’t.” He didn’t mean for it to sound so harsh. He was just so damned tired of it all. He heard John sigh. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to take this out on John, who’s been nothing but a supportive friend since everything went to shit. He heaved a sigh and set his beer down.

“Look, John, I get he’s your friend and I’m glad things are fine between you two, but I’m just not there yet, sorry.

“Would you rather he be dead?” 

His stomach plummeted at the thought. “No. I never wanted that. But it’s what we all thought. He made us believe it. You can’t just undo that.” He looked at John and found him contemplative.

“What?”

John swallowed, his eyes shifting back and forth, as if going through an inner debate with himself. Then he pursed his lips and met Lestrade’s eyes.

“I begged him to not be dead. I stood over his gravestone and asked for a miracle. I’ve never told anyone this. Not even Mary. Now I’m not a religious man, but this is one thing I’m not going to question. How many people do you know return from the dead?” He paused, licking his lips. “He’s hurting, Greg. He’ll never admit it and he tries his damn best to put up a front, but I see it. Something’s off. He hasn’t given me much detail about his time away, but I can tell that whatever happened was horrible. I’ve been to war, Greg, and that feeling of dread never goes away.

“And he’s there by himself in that flat of his and I don’t know what he’s thinking. He won’t open up to me and I won’t press him but I do know as soon as your name comes up he becomes more withdrawn than I’ve ever seen him, Greg-- and I’ve seen him not speak for two days straight...Whatever this is, it needs to be resolved. It may not be my business, but I know you two used to be close and as much as I don’t want to interfere, I can’t keep quiet. I want to help him but I don’t know how. But I think you do.”

His whole body was shaking. Shaking with suppressed anger, and grief and the _unfairness_ of it all. His head killed and he was torn between wanting to punch something over and over to wanting to crawl into his bed and never come out again.

“Talk to me, Greg.”

He shook his head over and over. He couldn’t form words if he wanted to. He heard, rather than saw John stand up and take a seat directly next to him. Cautiously, John laid a hand on his shoulder.

He thought he was going to throw up but he managed to say, “I’ll speak with him,” and John had nodded and left it at that.

***

He sat in his office for an hour without doing a shred of work before he finally picked up his mobile. Before he could lose his nerve he sent off a text.

_If you have a free minute, I could use your help with something. I can send you an email with the attached file._

Less than thirty seconds later:

      _Send away. SH_

He frowned down at the two words, somehow hoping they would rearrange themselves into something more. When that didn’t happen he opened his email and attached the file, clicking send. This would never have happened in the past. He couldn’t remember ever emailing Sherlock anything. He would be here in person for the file or Lestrade would have delivered it to him himself. But nothing was questioned now and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

Two hours later, he got another text.

       _I need more data. Is the body still at Bart’s? SH_

He contemplated his answer. He didn’t really want to open this door up again, did he? If he allowed Sherlock this, what else would follow? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. It made no difference to him if Sherlock wanted to help out. He could take it or leave it.

      _Yes_

As he got ready to head home for the day, his phone chimed. He glanced down at the message, mouth parting in surprise.

      _Not murder. Suicide. Self-administered poison found in bloodstream. Molly has details. SH_

The lack of feeling behind the messages chilled his blood. He shouldn’t be reading too much into a text message but he knew Sherlock. This was a man who relished the reveal. To defer to Molly reeked with disinterest and/or lack of enthusiasm. It was strangely disheartening.

_Thank you, Sherlock_

He didn’t really expect a response and tried to not to feel dismayed when he received none.

***

He sipped on his bourbon, relishing the sweet burn down his throat. It was his second that night and he easily could’ve downed another if he allowed himself to. It was past ten and he didn’t need to work early tomorrow anyway. He felt restless and perturbed, though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason why.

He stared down at his phone again. Two days after Sherlock’s cold texts and nothing further was communicated. It wasn’t like he anticipated anything. It wasn’t like he was actually hoping Sherlock would inundate his mobile with requests for assistance. Or pester him for more work. No, that time had long since passed. And it wasn’t like Lestrade hadn’t made it perfectly plain he wanted minimal contact with Sherlock.

His throat closed up and he sputtered on his liquor. He put it down, misery straining on his nerves. John was right. He couldn’t go on like this. They couldn’t get on like this. Things needed to be amended or it would only continue downhill from here.

He could do this. He could be cordial. He could be the bigger man. He could figure out a way for them to remain as associates without the need to be friends. He rubbed at his eyes as he argued with himself, his own brain not making sense.

Knowing sleep would not be happening that night, he left his flat. He told the cabbie Baker Street without even being conscious of making that decision. But now that it was said and done he refused to back down.

The cab pulled up to the familiar building and his heart hammered behind his ribcage, threatening to tear through. He paid the fare and stepped out to the kerb on shaky legs. He took a few steps away to smoke a cigarette and calm his nerves. It didn’t help.

“Fuck it.”

He stalked up to the building and rang the buzzer. It was Mrs. Hudson that answered. She looked surprised to see him.

“Oh my goodness, Greg, you startled me,” she exclaimed with her hand pressed to her chest.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late, Mrs. Hudson. I rang Sherlock’s floor,” he said with a frown. She giggled.

“Sherlock hardly ever answers the door. And I was up anyway. Would you like me to bring something up?”

“Oh, no, thank you though. I’m not staying long. Just something...case-related.” He forced a smile. She waved him inside and told him if they needed anything, to let her know. “Sherlock doesn’t have many visitors any more,” she said morosely, but her smile was back again just as quick. “He’ll be so glad you stopped by!” She went inside after he bade her a good night and with an impending sense of doom, climbed the stairs.

He knocked twice and waited. The door opened to reveal a very surprised Sherlock. His mouth parted in question and his eyes were for once unreserved and open. And in a flash, it was gone, shuttered and locked away.

“Lestrade.” He actually glanced down at his watch.

“Yeah, sorry. I hope it’s not too late.” He couldn’t keep his gaze, it was too much, all at once.

“No, I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight,” the younger man said with a quirk of his lip, as he stepped to the side to let Lestrade in. The older man nervously walked through the threshold, hands stuffed into his pockets to hide the obvious tremors. He heard the door quietly click shut as he gazed around the familiar space. It looked nearly identical to what he remembered.

“Do you want some tea?” he heard Sherlock ask to his back. He shook his head no without turning around, fingers squeezing the fabric of his inner pockets.

“May I get you anything else?”

Lestrade shut his eyes against the formality in his tone. “No, thanks.” He finally turned around because Sherlock didn’t seem to be moving from his spot either.

His heart smashed into a million pieces as he stared at the figure in front of him, as he looked into the eyes that have haunted his nightmares for the past three years. The same swirling brilliance shown through, the indescribable colour magnified tenfold by the proximity to his presence. He turned away and headed to the sofa, sinking into it with relief.

After a moment, Sherlock followed suit and sat in his worn leather chair, smoothing the fabric of his trousers with his hands. His dressing gown hung loosely around his frame, a splash of dark navy dress shirt peeking through. He didn’t say anything, clearly waiting for Lestrade to begin.

The sigh spilled from his lips unbidden, and the pleasant alcohol buzz he had earlier that gave him the courage to come here had all but dissolved.

“How have things been?” he found himself asking. Sherlock blinked.

“Fine. Busy. The cases are slowly starting to build again. Plus I’ve been busy helping John and Mary plan their wedding,” he rambled, uncharacteristically, hands twining together. Lestrade held his breath as if every thought he owned would spill from his lips.

“And you?” Sherlock asked almost as an afterthought, as if he remembered it was the proper thing to do. Lestrade stared.

“Um, fine, good. I moved to a new place after the divorce was finalized. Still working.” He caught Sherlock staring back. “But I’m sure you already knew all that. I can’t imagine Mycroft doesn’t keep you apprised of things.” It was meant to sound casual but it tasted of accusation.

Sherlock looked away. “Only because I inquired,” Sherlock softly replied. Lestrade didn’t know what to do with that information.

Silence reigned, awkward and palpable. Sherlock suddenly stood, rising to full height.

“Why are you here, Greg?”

“I don’t know,” he finally said, savoring the feel of his name on Sherlock’s lips. “Will you tell me where you were? For three years?”

Sherlock blinked down at him, an uncomfortable look passing over his entire face. But then he was sitting once more and the clinical, superior tone that used to be prevalent in every word of his broke through as he recounted briefly what transpired.

“I was in the Middle East for a while before heading to China. There I spent eight months before flying to India, then Russia, Latvia, Romania, and finally Serbia.” He frowned as he finished, as if he never bothered to recall his movements in the past three years.

Lestrade’s brows rose as he finished speaking. “Yes, go on.” Sherlock looked at him in blank befuddlement. “That’s pretty much the gist of it.”

Lestrade narrowed his eyes as his lip quirked mirthlessly. “What did you do in all those places? Surely you were not merely on holiday,” he said in a mocking tone that Sherlock did not miss.

“Do you really have to ask that, Lestrade? I was taking care of Moriarty’s extensive network. Dismantling it bit by bit. And of course taking care of Mycroft’s dirty work as well. There weren’t many people he could trust to do the job to his liking.” His eyes looked drained as he stared ahead, as if he couldn’t keep his irritation in check.

Lestrade was perturbed. “I’m not gonna get any details from you?”

“You don’t want details, trust me.”

Lestrade stood, now looking down on Sherlock. “That’s the thing, you see, Sherlock. I’m not entirely sure I do trust you right now. You haven’t given me shit. Your answers were about as evasive as they get. I don’t know what to think here.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew cold. “You don’t have to think anything, I’m perfectly aware of why you’ve come this evening. You can sniff somewhere else, Lestrade, because I refuse to be a part of it.”

Lestrade stared, indignant. “I came, because I wanted to see if I still recognized any part of you. Turns out I had nothing to fear,” he shook his head. “Welcome back, Sherlock, he said, and stormed out.

***

He emailed Sherlock a bunch of cold case files from the last two years. Sherlock solved three of them in 4 days. They didn’t speak in person since the night at Baker Street but his fingers were getting a workout all of a sudden. He grumbled as he sent off yet another text to Sherlock regarding the cases.

And then a few days later he got a call of homicide in Hyde Park and didn’t even miss a beat as he texted Sherlock all about it. It wasn’t until he saw him approach in all his coat-clad glory that he nearly had a heart attack. Donovan was practically a statue by his side as she stared, slack-jawed at the obvious intrusion. Sherlock ignored her as he came forward, gloves on, all business.

“Well?”

And just like that, Lestrade started to talk. “Female, mid-twenties, caucasian. No I.D. It appears that she was strangulated. No witnesses so sometime during last night is when we’ve pinned it.” Sherlock was already moving around the body on the ground, crouching, standing, looking, sniffing. Then he stepped away to examine the various footprints surrounding the body.

“It appears random. No connection to the assailant.”

“And how did you come by that, freak?”

“Sally, stop.” That from Lestrade, who surprised himself even. Sherlock ignored them both as he pulled out a cigarette, huffing a sigh as he lit it up.

“The signs are all here, if you’d bothered to look. Take her to Bart’s but don’t waste your time interrogating her acquaintances.” And then he was walking away, leaving Donovan sputtering and glaring between the retreating figure and Lestrade’s still form.

Turned out the victim’s family and friends didn’t know a thing and were not held under suspicion. Unfortunately, the killer was never found.

“Probably some homeless guy, coked up and insane. Strangled her and took her money. Case closed,” drawled Sherlock from the sofa as Lestrade stood over him four days later. He had decided to pop in in person since he was in the area anyway, and wanted to see if Sherlock had any further insight. He was rapidly regretting his decision.

“A girl is dead, Sherlock, and her killer is still out there.” He couldn't believe the sense of déjà vu he was having as he stared down at a disinterested Sherlock while he continued to glare, hands on hips. He saw Sherlock shrug minutely and it nearly set him off.

“Well what is the point of your guys if they can’t do their job. It isn’t my problem.”

“Right, forgive me for disturbing you, I can see how utterly busy you are,” he seethed, and went to leave.

“Are you going out with John tonight?” Sherlock suddenly called out. He stopped and turned back.

“Yes as a matter of fact. Why?”

Another shrug. “Merely inquiring.”

Lestrade loitered for a moment longer, an invitation on the tip of his tongue before he changed his mind. He didn’t feel guilty. That wasn’t why Sherlock was asking. It wasn’t. But Sherlock never asked pointless questions, not without reason. So when John met him at their pub of choice, he didn’t bring up Sherlock’s inquiry because he really didn’t want to see the look of disappointment on John’s face all night.

***

He lamented his decision to down three cups of coffee in the span of an hour when he found himself marching briskly to the nearest loo. He hoped none of his crew noticed the constant toilet room trips and thought he had a UTI or something.

He rounded the corner and opened the door--and froze in his tracks. The first view he got as he entered was the reflection of Sherlock, bent over the sink, hands braced on either side, head hanging low. Immediately, Lestrade stepped forward, even as Sherlock stiffened and tried to straighten out.

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” The man’s face was positively ashen and even if he weren’t a detective you couldn’t miss the tremors in the younger man’s hands and lower lip. Instinctively he reached up, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder--and watched as he automatically jerked away from his touch. Hoping his face didn’t display how hurt he was by that, he lowered his hand but didn’t back away.

He recognized the signs. Sherlock wasn’t the first person he’d met with this issue. It’s just that he’d never known Sherlock to exhibit it.

“Sherlock, were you having a panic attack?” he asked gently, but couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. Sherlock instantly turned away, valiantly attempting to gain control of his breathing, his eyes closed against everything.

He was not surprised to find Sherlock at the Met. He had actually invited him to look over a new case file. But he certainly didn’t expect this. And he knew without a doubt Sherlock most definitely did not intend for Lestrade to find out about this.

“Sherlock?” he tried again. The younger man inhaled, craning his neck as his eyes finally fluttered open. He stared at Lestrade cooly.

“I’m fine. I’ll meet you in your office after you’ve finished here,” he announced and stalked away, perspiration dampening his forehead. Lestrade stared at the retreating figure, his heart clenching uncomfortably.

When he returned, Sherlock looked prim and collected as he sat in his customary chair, file already in hand. He didn’t dare bring anything up as he sat down and brought Sherlock up to speed. Of course, as soon as the young detective left…

      _Hey John. Question...Does Sherlock suffer from panic attacks?_

_I assume you have a reason for asking, but I have seen him have a couple since he came back. Nothing major. It’s not uncommon though._

Lestrade felt ill. Was Sherlock even seeing a doctor about this? Did anyone actually know how much stress he was under? He couldn’t imagine Sherlock speaking to a therapist but he knew panic attacks were never a good sign, especially if left untreated.

      _Thanks John._

He should leave it alone, he knew. It wasn’t his problem. Sherlock was no longer his concern. He was a grown man and would certainly balk at any inklings of concern thrown his way. Especially from Lestrade. Except that every long-forgotten feeling he ever had for Sherlock surged forward suddenly, and the very thought of Sherlock suffering through anything turned his insides to rot.

He texted Mycroft without thought.

       _Sherlock has panic attacks?!_

His phone rang. He answered without even looking at his caller ID.

“Mycroft.”

“Inspector.” The voice sighed and Lestrade froze. “I had suspected, but he’s never exhibited one in front of me since his return. I am assuming you have...seen it happen?”

“Yes,” he said, his jaw clenching. “And because you just confirmed that you didn’t really know, I assume he’s not seeking help for any of this.”

“He is refusing all medical treatment at the moment.”

Lestrade was livid. “What does that mean? He hasn’t seen a doctor of any kind since he’s been back? He’s been all over the world. What if he contracted something? And what about his psychological state?

“I cannot exactly force Sherlock into anything he doesn’t wish, Inspector.”

Lestrade gawked at his phone. “This is bullshit, Mycroft! You’ve always been on top of things and you’re telling me you can’t get a doctor to see him? What if he’s hiding something? What if he’s sick?” he squeaked in a sudden panic.

“Calm down. I saw Sherlock for myself right after we got him out. Physically, aside from the scarring and bruises, he appeared unaffected.”

_“Scarring?_ ” He could barely see straight now.

“Inspector, how nice of you to start caring about my brother’s welfare. So glad you could finally come around, given he’s been back over three months now.” The sarcasm could not have been missed even if you were deaf and blind.

Lestrade shut his eyes and tried not to mentally throttle Mycroft. “You know I’ve always cared for him,” he breathed, and that came out way more honest and painful than he intended. “He never said a word about what happened to him, not to me anyway. He refused. I wasn’t going to press him. But if he’s in pain or suffering-”

“Of course he’s suffering,” the steely voice came down. “He’s been undercover for three years! And if you think I haven’t tried to speak with him-”

“Fuck. Jesus. I’m sorry, I get it. I know you’d never intentionally let him suffer through anything. But I know he hasn’t even spoken of it to John, so I’m at a loss here.” The line was silent for a while. He bit his lip.

“I’m afraid it is not up to me, Inspector.”

He sighed in quiet despair. “Then we let him suffer? Just like that?”

“I’m afraid there’s only one person that’s ever been able to show him reason.”

He closed his eyes against the world, and tried to ignore the pounding in his ears. “He won’t listen to me. Not now. And I’m not even sure I’d want to take that responsibility on.”

“If that is true, _Greg_ , then you never loved my brother at all.”

The line went silent then, for good that time. He sat, shell-shocked at the surreal conversation he just had. He wiped his brow and rubbed the weariness from his face, his stomach in knots.

Mycroft knows. _Of course he knows. He’s always known._ The thought should have frightened him out of his wits, but he felt only resignation and tiredness. His mind was a jumble and he felt wrecked. He went home and crashed.

***

He didn’t think it could happen, but every protective instinct he’d ever had towards Sherlock suddenly surfaced upon waking and he realized he was only fooling himself when he claimed he wanted nothing to do with Sherlock.

He ate his breakfast morosely as he pondered his life. There were good days and horrible days, off and on for the past three years. There were days when he didn’t want to get out of bed, blaming himself for everything that happened, and there were times when he thought of Sherlock only in passing. But those times were rare. Sherlock was always there, floating around in his mind.

You can’t just forget a life force like Sherlock. Dating was a problem. At first the interest was non-existent. He couldn’t picture himself with another person so soon after Sherlock, even though they technically were not in a relationship. Still, it felt wrong. But then, as the months progressed, and loneliness eventually settled in, he realized that was not the way to live.

So he went out. He met some girls. The thought of another man who was not Sherlock drove him to depression, so he never went there again. He could even admit he was having fun after a while. But none of it was serious and none of it made him want to settle down. He had missed the sex, truth be told and found he didn’t mind losing himself in the smile of a pretty woman who happened to be very interested in him.

It was fine. For a while. Work always seemed to get in the way. Getting called away to crime scenes while in the middle of a date did not sit well with some people. And pretty soon he just became tired of the whole scene. He changed his way of thinking. If there was someone for him, well, then he’d just wait for it, rather than chasing some imaginary phantom. And the months passed, and the girls diminished in number until they stopped altogether. Close to six months now, he thought with a depressed sigh as he crunched on his cereal.

And then Sherlock came back, and his world turned upside down. He was an absolute fool for thinking he didn’t still feel anything for the young detective. His long-rooted anger obscured those feelings initially, but now…

He didn’t know. He couldn’t just go up to Sherlock and declare his feelings. He didn’t even want to imagine how that scenario would play out. Plus, he wasn’t exactly sure what Sherlock’s thoughts were. Three years was a long time and people change. Not to mention Sherlock would probably balk at anything resembling an ardent emotion.

Additionally, he wasn’t exactly sure he could completely reconcile his feelings when he was still so bitter about everything. Sherlock had deceived him. His blood boiled just thinking about it and it wasn’t something he could just sweep under the rug.

He felt conflicted about everything, his brain protesting the sudden barrage of emotion. But one thing he was absolutely certain about was that Sherlock was not himself, and possibly in pain. He despised knowing that. Mycroft seemed to think he could help. But how? Sherlock was as closed off as he’d ever seen him. It felt impossible.

He reached for his mobile.

      _Working from home this morning. Want to come over and help out?_

He gnawed on his fingernail, waiting for a response.

      _I can be there in twenty. SH_

He breathed a sigh of relief only to go into panic mode a second later. He jumped up as he realized Sherlock had never been to his new flat before. He needed to tidy up. It wasn't a mess per se, but for some reason he wanted to impress Sherlock.

The new flat was all his, no trace of Deb in it. He was proud of it as he got a good deal on it when buying and had actually turned it into something respectable. He dashed to the bedroom to make up his bed, then back to the kitchen to stuff all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. It would have to do. He was just straightening out some of his books in the living room when he heard the buzzer.

He hit the button to let Sherlock in and waited an excruciating two minutes for the lift to climb the six floors to his flat. He heard a knock. He smoothed his sweaty palms against his trousers and went to open the door.

Predictably, Sherlock’s gaze went past him straight into the flat. He walked right in and proceeded to sweep the place with his eyes, missing nothing.

“Tea?” Lestrade offered. Sherlock nodded absentmindedly. Whilst Sherlock was inspecting the flat, Lestrade made the tea without asking how he wanted it. Two sugars, no milk. It was odd that he remembered after so long.

Sherlock sat himself down on the sofa, but not before removing his suit jacket. For some reason that made his heart speed up a fraction. He averted his eyes and set the steaming cups on the coffee table.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. Sherlock never used to thank him for making tea before.

“Welcome.” He sat down in his chair, suddenly feeling warm, despite the cool temperature outside. He rolled his shirtsleeves up before making himself comfortable.

“So where are the files?” Sherlock asked, all business.

“Oh, right.” He jumped back up and went to find his briefcase. He brought all the paperwork back to the living room. They shuffled through the papers for a while as their tea cooled off.

“This hardly looks worth the effort,” Sherlock declared after absorbing every single page to memory. He threw the stack of papers back onto the coffee table and picked up his tea.

Lestrade frowned. “Well there are two bodies in the morgue that would beg to differ,” he chided. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Truth be told, he didn’t invite Sherlock over to discuss a new case. He just needed an excuse to get him over.

He wanted to get Sherlock talking but had no clue how to go about doing so. Plus, he didn’t want to be too obvious.

“I’m sure anything you do now won’t be as interesting as what you’ve been doing,” he said, casually, taking a sip of his cooled-off tea. Sherlock arched a brow.

“I’m not sure _interesting_ is the word you’re looking for. Although I did nearly get blown up after returning home so I can’t say things have been exactly uneventful so far.

Lestrade sighed, because that was exactly the answer that would come out of Sherlock’s mouth. “Talking of eventful, I hear you’re helping plan John’s wedding.”

A shrug. “Just sort of happened. Helps pass the time in between cases.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Never thought I’d see the day when Sherlock Holmes participates in something romance-related.” Sherlock’s brown furrowed. “John is my friend, and besides, he’s rubbish at planning. Mary does quite a bit, but someone has to assist her since John is incapable.” There was a defensive note in his tone but it made Lestrade smile to think of Sherlock helping out like that.

“So has he asked you yet?”

Sherlock looked confused. “Asked me what?”

“To be his best man.”

Sherlock blinked as if he didn’t understand the question. “Why would John ask me to be his best man?” he asked in all seriousness.

“You’re joking, right?” He looked incredulous as he stared at the befuddlement in Sherlock’s face.

“Of course he’s gonna ask you. And you better say yes,” he finished, in a dead serious tone. Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“I don’t know why you’d even care if he asks me or not.”

Lestrade was suddenly fuming. “Because I was there for him when you weren’t and if you refuse him this he’ll never forget it. And I’ll never forgive you for it.”

“Add it to your list then,” Sherlock spat with derision. He stood up, eyes cool as steel. “If you’re so great a friend to him then it’s only logical he’d ask you, so this entire conversation is pointless.”

“When has anything been logical when it comes to you two?” Lestrade countered roughly. “John worships the ground you walk on, no matter apparently what you do to him. That’s his business if he wants to go down that road again. But I actually care what happens to him so if I even hear that you’re remotely entertaining the possibility of turning down his offer, so help me Sherlock, things will not be pretty.” He was breathing so hard he was practically seeing spots.

Sherlock looked at Lestrade like he was a roach, about to be flattened. “John asking me to be his best man is about as stupid and pointless as your threats. John is my friend and I have no intention of harming that friendship in any way. If the highly improbable situation arises, I will not turn him down, but since the likelihood of that happening is even less than the likelihood of you settling down with anyone, your argument is moot.” He was already throwing on his jacket, buttoning it deftly with one hand, when Lestrade realized he was being insulted.

“Why is it so unlikely that I would settle down? he asked automatically and immediately hated himself for falling into his trap.

“Oh please,” Sherlock declared in his deepest, grittiest voice, inadvertently turning Lestrade’s blood molten. “I don’t need to have been present for me to see what you’ve been up to these past three years, Lestrade.”

Lestrade spang up, eyes dark with anger. “Don’t you dare, Sherlock. Don’t you even think of trying to deduce me. You have no fucking right. You left, remember? If anything, I look at you and see exactly what you’ve been up to. Like I can’t see the tremors in your hands you’re so desperate to hide, or the signs of constant headaches. The lack of sleep and muddy eyes. The constant frustration underneath that false exterior. I’d give it another month until you shoot up, hoping for that quick fix again. Or perhaps you’ve indulged while you were playing soldier and can’t seem to function now without. Either way, you’re one step away from drowning your sorrows with all those other coke and meth heads down town.”

Sherlock’s composure had broken as soon as he mentioned the drugs, and Lestrade didn't know whether it was shock or because he had miscalculated. Either way the blood completely drained from the younger man’s face as he backed away towards the kitchen, his cold eyes never leaving Lestrade’s. He didn’t utter a word as he wrapped his coat around himself and left the flat, not even bothering to slam the door.

As soon as he was gone Lestrade collapsed in his chair, breathing erratic. His mind was a mess and his hands shook uncontrollably, which he had to laugh at given he’d just blasted Sherlock over it.

That went terribly bad. It was as far opposite of good as you could get. He couldn’t even move his limbs for close to half an hour because he was just so numb. He felt like the lowest form of shit there was and he hated that he still needed to go to work and actually attempt to _work_.

With a strange sense of detachment he headed in, counting down the hours until evening. He didn’t dare try to contact Sherlock, despite the fact that he felt at fault. He just wasn’t prepared for the fallout. Inevitably, it wasn’t remotely up to him.

He ended up staying late, catching up with work. He was beyond tired by the time he got the phone call, but his skin prickled with unease the second he saw who the caller was. Inwardly cursing, he knew there was no point ignoring this call.

“Yea, Mycroft.” His heart was palpitating threateningly.

“What have you done?” came the accusing, if not slightly hysterical tone.

There was no point playing stupid or denying anything. “Christ, what’s happened?” He rubbed at his temple, breathing laboriously.

“He’s sitting in my house as we speak. Do you have any idea the last time Sherlock willingly and of his own accord knocked on my door? What did you _say_ to him?” he sniped with a sharp tone.

He mentally groaned. “He didn’t tell you?” He was stalling.

“No. He never tells me anything. But it wasn’t exactly difficult to surmise. I know he saw you this morning and now he’s sitting in my home, not talking, just sitting. What in God’s name did you say to him?”

Lestrade felt ill. “I might have...that is I-- oh fuck.” He took a deep, anguished breath. “I accused him of using.”

Absolute silence. It was somehow worse than the alternative.

“How could you possibly be so _callous_?” came the inevitable harshly-whispered voice, tinged with incredulity and disbelief.

Lestrade, drained of all energy, lost it then. “I’m sorry! Fuck, I didn’t mean for that to happen...I didn’t ask him over to drive him away! I just, I wanted him to hurt- I wanted him to _feel_ like what I felt and it just came out all wrong. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all. I’m so sorry,” he finished in a whisper, shame dripping from every syllable.

“I am not the one who requires an apology.”

“I know.”

“Fix this.” Mycroft’s line went dead and Lestrade released a shuttered breath, his chest constricting in protest. He felt ill, sweaty and shaky, his stomach in knots. He dropped his phone and drooped his head, fingers threading through his hair maniacally.

Dread swirled rampant in his mind, and even as Mycroft ordered him to make it better, he somehow knew it was too late. Sherlock wasn’t a twenty-something, fresh-out-of-Uni kid anymore. There was no reasoning with him, not anymore. He had every right to tell him to fuck off for good.

He took a cab back to his flat, deflated and defeated.

***

He didn’t bother shaving, even though it was his weekly shaving day. He had zero energy and he idly wondered how he even managed to get dressed that morning, He stood in front of his Keurig, dazed and sleepy, and waited for his subpar coffee to finish.

Just as he was pouring the milk, there was a knock on his door. He stilled. Someone needed to ring his buzzer before being allowed entrance and he certainly had not heard anything of the sort. And his neighbors had never called on him. Frowning, he went to see who it was.

His heart stopped as he saw Mycroft Holmes standing in the corridor, looking particularly gloomy today.

“How did you get upstairs?” he asked, earning him a raised brow. Ah, of course that was a stupid question. He stepped aside, sighing.

Mycroft came inside, a quick glance to survey the space. In his hand there was a large kraft envelope. He turned to face Lestrade.

“Sherlock fell asleep on my sofa and was gone early this morning,” he provided as Lestrade nodded. “We don’t _talk_ , Inspector. It’s not really our area,” he explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world to not converse with one’s sibling. Lestrade waited.

“But I don’t need him to talk to see what he’s been through. It’s plain as day. You only have to open your eyes to notice. And you need to wake up, Inspector, because you’ve been looking at him all wrong.” He indicated to the envelope in his hands, reaching forward.

Lestrade took it reflexively. “What is this?”

“I had these taken shortly after we located Sherlock. As evidence. In case there was an inquiry, ever, as unlikely as that may be. Still. It’s procedure. And highly classified. I am taking these back with me,” he said, clasping his hands in front of him.

Lestrade pursed his lips and walked over to his dining table, lifting the clasp of the envelope. Curiosity overtook his dread as he slowly reached under the flap and pulled out whatever was inside. Turned out, it was photographs.

Of Sherlock.

He felt, more than heard the gasp as his mouth fell open and a giant knot lodged itself in the back of his throat. There were at least two dozen photos there and he couldn’t even get past the first one. He sat down, vaguely aware Mycroft was slowly approaching. He flipped the first photo over and stared in horror at the one underneath. He felt bile rise and he shoved them out of the way, glaring up at Mycroft.

“Why?” he growled as Mycroft towered over him. The elder brother reached over in a flash and pushed the photos back in front of Lestrade.

“For your ignorance. You _will_ look at these,” he said in a lethal tone. Lestrade took a moment to compose himself, dearly praying he wouldn’t throw up all over his table. He steeled himself and opened his eyes. Images were spread out in front of him-- Sherlock, over and over, in all his chromatic glory.

Clad in just his boxers, he stood, a bored expression plastered on his face. From the front, the back, the side, neck up, arms wide open, a wild mop of heavily curled, damp hair obscuring half his face. But Lestrade's eyes were glued to what was all over his all too-thin body.

Scars, no matter where his gaze waivered. Bruising, mottled from neck to feet. Hardly an inch of skin was spared. Deep cuts, some still bleeding, welts and old scarring, faded but poorly stitched. Christ. Pure black bruises on his torso and sides. Sherlock was smoking in one photograph, eyes closed. Lestrade stopped breathing long ago.

“These were just from when I found him. There is a whole three year gap unaccounted for,” Mycroft stated with zero emotion. Like he didn’t know how to even wrap his brain around the imagery.

Lestrade had seen countless photos of victims before. Rape victims, stab wounds, heads blown to bits, decapitated limbs. Children even. It horrified him each and every time. But this. This felt entirely different. Personal. This wasn’t some stranger. This was Sherlock. His stomach threatened to rebel. He reached over with trembling fingers and slowly pushed the photos away from his direct line of vision. It didn’t matter. They were permanently engrained.

“Not quite, Inspector. Take a closer look, if you dare. In fact, I insist. Tell me,” he said, voice dark and gravelly-- so much so that it reminded him of Sherlock-- “what it is you _don’t_ see?” He didn’t bother to wait for an answer as he deftly reached over and picked through the photographs until finding one-- a close-up of his injured arms-- and dropped it back down in front of Lestrade.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

With trepidation, Lestrade looked down. He scanned the photograph, Sherlock’s wiry arms bright and pale from the flash, contrasted only by the terrible bruising. He forced himself to look closer, perfectly aware of Mycroft breathing down his neck.

He swallowed harshly. Not one puncture wound. Not a single track line. Nothing. Not a pin prick. On either arm. He sighed, closing his eyes in shame.

“Now you know. Though the fact that I had to resort to this is deplorable. Of all the things he did, or was forced to do to stay alive, his old habit was not one of them.” He gathered the photos up, stuffing them back in the envelope.

“How do I fix this?” Lestrade asked miserably. He couldn’t meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” he whispered, a hint of regret in his tone. “As I mentioned before, it’s not really my area.”

Lestrade scoffed. “What, compassion?”

Mycroft stared as if dumbfounded. “Sherlock.”

He left shortly after, leaving Lestrade late for work.

***

Working was futile. With every blink of his eyes he saw only those photographs, as if they were right in front of him again. Mycroft could have just told him. He would have believed him. But no, the Holmes brothers never do anything halfway. He wanted Lestrade hurt. And really, who could blame him? He had falsely accused Sherlock of using drugs and despite what he said about Sherlock not being his area, Mycroft had come quickly to his defense. It would have been sweet if he wasn’t still creeped out.

Donovan was giving him looks. He suddenly realized that he’d known her longer than Sherlock even, but that she would never be close to him. He trusted her with his life but he’d never trust her with his secrets. She’d probably have an aneurysm and quit if she only knew the history between him and Sherlock.

He thought about calling John but he was at a loss. What would he say? He wondered if John knew about the photographs. Highly doubtful. He could only imagine his reaction if that were the case. He had no one to talk to. He couldn’t tell John about Sherlock. He just couldn’t. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of his past relationship with the Consulting Detective, it’s just he wasn’t sure if Sherlock would mind it, being super private.

He sighed for the umpteenth time that day. There was only one person he felt comfortable with talking of almost anything, but that person was probably avoiding him like the plague. He groaned into his hands. Very well. So he couldn’t speak to Sherlock. But the least he could do was apologize to him.

That felt suddenly like a daunting task, because how could a simple apology ever be enough to justify his folly? He slammed the lid of his laptop shut, nerves shot to hell.  

He was acting like a coward and he hated that feeling. Before he lost his nerve, he snatched up his phone and hit speed dial. It rang and rang. Swearing, he chucked his phone down. He refused to text him. It was beyond impersonal. A sudden burst of adrenaline shot through him and he was out of his chair before he even realized it. He left the Yard and hailed a cab.

“Baker Street,” he told the cabbie.

Half an hour later (damn traffic) he was bounding up the stairs, his finger on the buzzer repeatedly. Mrs. Hudson was the one who opened the door, a slight hint of annoyance on her face. It died though when she saw who it was.

“Oh, thank goodness. Come on in, Greg. I didn’t realize he was expecting you. Told me absolutely no clients or visitors. Something’s got him all in a tizzy. Wouldn’t even take my offer of tea. Don’t think that’s ever happened…” She smiled up at him though. “But he wouldn’t be averse to a visit from you, Inspector. Got a new case for him?”

“Um, sort of. It’s a bit classified,” he lied, feeling even worse for it. She patted his arm. “Course, dear. He’ll be delighted to see you. Off you get!”

He could almost feel the beads of sweat forming on his brow, and hear the incessant hammering inside his chest. Sherlock’s door was shut-- a rare sight during the daytime.

God, this was not a good idea. He knocked. And waited. Then he heard it, muffled but growing closer and louder.

_“_....told you Mrs. Hudson, _no_ visitors! _”_ He yanked the door open, mouth parted in further rebuke. It snapped closed as soon as he saw Lestrade standing there. His eyes closed off instantly, growing cold and narrowed.

“Inspector,” he finally said, voice low and arrogant.

“Can I come in,” he asked quietly. Sherlock’s eyes were steel.

“No, you _may_ not. I’m occupied at the moment. Goodbye!” He went to slam the door, but Lestrade was prepared for that. His arm came out automatically, connecting with the old wood with a harsh snap. Sherlock’s lips thinned.

“I’ll leave after I said what I need to say.”

“You’ve said plenty,” Sherlock countered, but his eyes flashed in surprise, as if he hadn’t meant to speak. He pursed his lips and glared.

“Fine. I can do this here too.” He licked his lips and looked down, taking a deep breath before straightening up and meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said to you. You know me, Sherlock. You know I didn’t mean a word of it,” his voice low. “The truth is, I wanted to hurt you. It was spineless and stupid and I don’t even know where it came from. I was angry. Truth is, I’m still angry. But that’s no excuse for what I said. I haven’t been myself since you came back, Sherlock. Nothing is right. But I should not have taken it out on you like that,” he finished somberly and strangely, even more depressed.

Sherlock’s expression never changed. “Well I hope your conscience is clear now, Inspector,” he said in a mocking tone. “But you’re right about one thing, Lestrade. I do know you, and some things never change. You told me once as I was sitting in a cell that you couldn’t look at me and not think of me as an addict. Well, it’s nice to see how true that statement is after all these years. I’m finally starting to feel like I’m back at home,” he finished with a tight, mirthless smirk. “So thank you for reminding me and bringing me back to my senses. Ta!”

This time, Lestrade didn’t bother with the door, just lazily stepped back to avoid getting his nose slammed painfully. He couldn’t breathe. His hand pressed against his chest as his eyes glossed over. He clenched his teeth as he laboriously made his way down the stairs. He could hardly remember the cab ride back to his flat.

***

      _John, I think I fucked things up with Sherlock._

_I doubt it. Sherlock doesn’t stay mad at people long._

He groaned.

      _You don’t know what I did._

A pause.

      _I’m coming over._

He was somehow too relieved to protest.

***

He gnawed on his knuckle as John stewed over the conversation they’d just had. He watched as shock radiated off of John like a furnace. He couldn’t look him in the face.

“I know. I’m the lowest form of shit there is.”

John shook his head. He blew out a puff of air, looked at him not quite critically, but enough to make him feel even worse. “But why? Why would you even go there, Greg? The drugs are not exactly something he’s proud of.”

“I know. I know. I was angry. I can’t explain it and looking back it’s bloody stupid but I can’t take it back. I don’t know what to do,” he finished helplessly.

John inhaled, licked his lips in concentration. Lestrade felt bad. On one hand, he was his friend, but on the other, he was Sherlocks’ first. He didn’t want to put him in this position.

“Greg, I don’t know what to tell you. You did right by trying to apologize. It didn’t go amiss, trust me. But you know how he is. Give him some time. He knows you didn’t mean it.”

Greg wasn’t so sure. John must have seen his expression.

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No! No, thanks John, but I think that would make things worse. You’re right, he probably just needs more time.” He sighed. John sighed.

“Just, don’t give up on him,” John quietly said, a slight pleading edge colouring his words. Lestrade shook his head.

“That’ll be the day.”

***

He sent off texts. Not too many; that would seem desperate and stalkerish. Just enough to be noticeable.

      _I’m sorry._

_Talk to me, Sherlock._

      _I can meet you wherever you’d like._

      _Please. Sorry._

And finally, because it was his last card to play:

     G _ot a cold case file that might have a lead. Interested?_

When that received no bites, he stopped texting.

***

A week later he was at Bart’s talking with Molly about a corpse at first, but soon turned into a full-blown conversation.

“Oh I love Brighton, when I get the chance to go. It’s been forever.”

“Well, you should go, Molly. Take a holiday. I don’t think I’ve hardly seen you outside the morgue,” Lestrade joked. She smiled back.

“I do have time saved. Maybe I can go with Tom. I don’t think he’s ever been,” she frowned suddenly. “Actually, I don’t think he likes the sun. Bit of an indoor person. I don’t mind though,” she rambled. “I like an evening in, watching telly…” she turned away, towards a microscope.

He looked at her fondly. Poor girl. She really was too pretty and too nice not to have snagged someone already. Didn’t help, her occupation. But she was proud of it, and she did an extraordinary job of it. He was always impressed by it.

“Well, I hope you can make it out there some day soon,” he said with a sincere smile. She looked up and smiled back, then her smile slipped away as she suddenly stared right past him. He swiveled his head to see the figure standing a few yards away, regarding stoically the scene before him.

“Hi, Sherlock,” Molly beamed enthusiastically.

Sherlock, hands in his coat pockets didn’t spare Lestrade a glance. “Molly. I need your assistance. When you’ve finished that is, doing whatever it is you were doing,” he finished coolly, then spun on his heel and walked away.

Lestrade sighed. Molly, flustered, stepped away from her work with an apologetic look. “Got to go. Sherlock beckons.” She said the last part in jest, but Lestrade knew only too well how close to the truth the fact was. He waved her away with an understanding smile, cringing as he thought what the scene must’ve looked like in Sherlock’s eyes. As if things between them couldn't get worse…

He went in their direction. Sherlock was just starting to walk away from Molly when Lestrade decided to follow.

“Sherlock! Wait a second.” Sherlock actually paused, his back to Lestrade, stiff and rigid. He didn’t turn around so Lestrade got closer.

“What do you want, Lestrade?” Sherlock said, following an insufferable sigh.

“Just to talk. Please.”

“Talking is boring.”

Lestrade went around to face Sherlock, whose expression was both guarded and annoyed. Lestrade grazed his fingers through his hair, his nerves a bit frayed.

“I know. Just a few minutes is all I ask. Lunch?”

“I don’t eat when I’m on a case, you know this,” Sherlock responded with an edge.

Lestrade blinked. “I didn’t know you had one on. Fine then, coffee, tea?” Sherlock regarded him stoically for a second, then he shuffled away. “I don’t have time.” He went on walking, leaving Lestrade’s heart in shards.

“Please.” It came out, unbidden. Sherlock stopped and swiftly turned around. Lestrade stood his ground.

“Why should I give you the time of day?” he asked roughly, eyes dark and vicious. “You have already explained your position quite clearly. Why do you persist in this pointless endeavor?” His hands were at his side, gesticulating with every word.

Lestrade swallowed roughly. “Because I was wrong, Sherlock.” And because he didn’t know of a way to explain to Sherlock without him questioning his motives, he gave up his source.

“Mycroft showed me the photos.” And then Sherlock shut down. Pale as a sheet he turned his back to Lestrade and stormed away.

“Sherlock, stop! This isn’t Mycroft’s fault, it’s mine. Just please listen.” He quickened his pace as he tried to keep up with the younger man’s stride. Sherlock didn’t even turn his head.

“I should have realized, I should have known--”

Sherlock came to a halt and turned on his heels, face flushed with fury. “I don’t want to hear what you feel like you need to say. I don’t want your damned pity!”

“It’s not pity, Sherlock! I’m trying to tell you I’ve been a complete prick, okay? I told myself I didn’t care what happened to you, because I was still furious with you. But it’s not true. I can’t will it to be true. I know awful things happened to you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I acted that way. I’ve never pitied you a day in my life, Sherlock. Nothing’s changed.” He was near out of breath.

Sherlock stared, jaw working. He shook his head, a look of disgust settling. “Everything’s changed, Lestrade.” He stuffed his hands inside his coat, a resigned, weary expression on his face.

“No,” Lestrade said firmly. “Not what’s important. You’re here. You’re alive. Everything else is irrelevant.”

Sherlock scoffed. “God, you can’t even say that with a straight face! I’m not blind. John thinks I don’t understand people, not really. Not like a _normal_ person. But I can see every nuance on your face, Lestrade. Every flicker of doubt and anger and reservation. No matter what you say I can still see it.”

Lestrade swallowed but refused to avert his eyes. “I’m not gonna pretend I’m not angry, Sherlock, or sad. I don’t know how to stop feeling like that. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you everything will be okay. But I do know I am indescribably glad you’re back. You’re actually here and it’s not some fucked up dream. I’m just really conflicted right now, Sherlock, and I know I’m probably not making any sense. But I need you to not...go away. I know that’s asking a lot after the way I’ve spoken to you, but I really need this from you.” _Please say yes_. His voice had lost all steam, but he knew Sherlock heard him.

Sherlock rocked on his heels, head down for a beat. Then he met Lestrade’s eyes and the fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by his habitual mask of indifference.

“You know where to find me. I don’t intend to leave again.” Then he nodded once, quickly, and walked calmly away. Lestrade released his breath. It wasn’t the most ideal of situations, but it was the best outcome he could hope for. He’d take it.

 

 


	13. Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to everyone who took the time to review!  
> Mature content for this chapter as well as SPOILERS for The Sign of Three.

He had just placed the shopping on the counter when his mobile rang. Blindly, he reached for his pocket to grab for it, hitting Talk automatically.

“Yeah, Lestrade.”

“He said yes.”

Lestrade blinked, then briefly looked down at the caller ID.

“Oh, hey John. Sorry, who said yes?”

“Sherlock. I asked him to be best man. And he said yes.”

Lestrade paused. “Course he did. Was there ever any doubt on that account?”

“I honestly wasn’t sure how he’d take it.” There was a long stretch of silence before John spoke again.

“Greg, I hope you don’t think… I mean, Sherlock is- I’ve known him-”

“John, stop. You don’t have to explain anything. I get it. Of course he’s your best man. And I’m glad he agreed, really I am.” He was. He would have absolutely killed Sherlock if he refused. John would have been devastated. Maybe once upon a time John would have asked Greg, if things were different. But he wouldn’t change the fact that Sherlock was back. Not for anything.

***

The days were warming up, bit by bit. Of course, no matter what he did, he couldn’t thaw the frost from inside 221B Baker St. He stopped by whenever he could, with case files or Sherlock’s favourite takeaway. Peace offerings, all politely spurned. Sherlock never refused his admittance, but his lack of enthusiasm was blatant and regrettable. Lestrade didn’t know how to reach him.

“I’m busy,” declared Sherlock after Lestrade showed him the latest file. The detective suppressed the sigh as he watched Sherlock flip through a medical periodical whilst chewing on a microwaved burrito.

“Gregson pulled this himself. Told me this one had you stumped a few years back. Looks like new evidence surfaced.”

Sherlock didn’t look up from his reading. “Then why isn’t Gregson here now?”

“Had a funeral to go to. Family member I think. Asked me to talk to you. Will you look it over?” He glanced at the half-massacred burrito-- or what passed for one. “I know you don’t have a private case on,” he ventured, given Sherlock’s meal.

“Leave it. Though I don’t know when I’ll get to it. I’m occupied currently.”

Lestrade left the file on the table, a million retorts on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he said, “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“Thought it wasn’t for you,” Sherlock returned.

Lestrade frowned. “Still, I know Gregson would appreciate it. And he’s a friend, so, thanks.”

Nothing further was forthcoming so Lestrade left, disappointment brimming underneath the surface. Sherlock was unreachable, the lack of interest infuriating. He’d thrown cases at him without a spark of curiosity. Only John could get him to come out of his shell. Whatever rapport he’d ever had with the younger man was gone.

He’d been at it for a month without much success. Sherlock didn’t explicitly tell him to stay away, nor did he invite his company, but Lestrade had been persistent. Words of apology felt wrong-- Sherlock didn’t like to mince words. Action always spoke louder. So he brought him things. Files, and photos, and Indian food. His favourite tea from the shops, and freshly-baked scones because he knew Sherlock loved them but would starve before he decided to actually go out and buy something to eat for himself.

Sherlock allowed all of it, but his wall never came down. It’s almost as if he was indifferent to Lestrade-- neither inviting nor rebuffing conversation. It was all very formal and Lestrade was starting to go mental. Something had to give.

Despite all that, Lestrade’s heart clenched every time he saw Sherlock. Watched as he stalked, cat-like around his flat, always moving, always doing. Sometimes he found him fully dressed; suit, dress shirt, shoes. Other times he would be in a tee and lounge pants, dress robe haphazardly thrown on, feet, pale and bare.  Hair an absolute disaster. It made Lestrade’s heart twinge longingly.

Two days later, he came back, empty-handed. Sherlock noticed with a casual glance but let him in all the same. Lestrade stood in the middle of the room for two whole minutes before coming to a decision.

“Why did you never tell me?” He didn’t need to elaborate; Sherlock took one look at his face and guessed right away. The younger man looked away briefly, body straight and tense.

“When? Before or after you put me under arrest?”

Lestrade barely refrained from flinching. “That wasn’t my idea,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s lip quirked slightly, as if the information wasn’t news to him. He turned away and went to check out something under his microscope.

“I couldn’t risk it,” he said, head down. “Same as with John. I couldn't-- I didn’t dare try to hint that anything was amiss. Essentially, that plan wasn’t supposed to come to pass. I hadn’t anticipated Moriarty blowing his brains to bits. I had about ten seconds to make the decision.” He sighed, looking up from his microscope.

Lestrade stood, hands in pockets. “So you allowed us to grieve for three years instead.”

Sherlock exhaled as he rubbed at his eyes wearily. “I didn’t expect to be gone that long.” He frowned and shut his eyes. “I am sorry.”

It was the most straightforward, yet genuine apology to have crossed Sherlock’s lips. He should have stopped right there but there were far too many unanswered questions.

“But you could risk Molly.”

Sherlock blinked. “Molly was essential to my plan. None of this would have worked if not for her. And the only reason I involved her at all was because Moriarty didn’t think I cared for her. He dismissed her”

Lestrade shrugged. “You treated that girl like shit for years and now all of a sudden she’s helping you fake your own death?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, stepping away from the table and closer to Lestrade. “Molly knows who and what I am. It was her own decision to assist me. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I’ve already spoke with her and thanked her. Now, is this inquisition finished yet?”

Lestrade looked down, shame filling his core. He hated how he couldn't control the rage swirling inside him. But every time he looked at Sherlock he either wanted to kiss him or punch him. He rubbed at his brow.

“Sorry.

“Anything else, then?”

Lestrade shook his head, but remained where he stood. Sherlock arched a brow. Lestrade lost his nerve and muttered a goodbye instead. He stood outside a moment later, fingers itching for a cigarette. The weather was slowly warming up, the sun shining more often than not. Still, it did nothing to brighten his bleak mood. He’d exhausted all his plays. There was nothing further he could accomplish with Sherlock and as depressing a prospect as it seemed, there was nothing he could think of to alleviate the hurt he felt within.

He was just making himself more anxious and sick with all the attempts to reach Sherlock. The younger man clearly wasn’t having it, so the smart thing would be to walk away. That’s what his brain told him anyway.

The truth was, he was in love with a man who didn’t love him back. Or more precisely, a man who refused to acknowledge his existence. That hurt more than anything. Sherlock used to trust him and talk to him. He used to be there for him. The sudden grief that surged through him nearly tore him apart as he acknowledged to himself that Sherlock was probably lost to him forever.

His chest felt constricted and heavy as he took a cab into work, lamenting his loss.

***

May arrived as it always did, a beautiful spectacle of blooming flowers and budding trees, and rain showers that weren’t quite as annoying as they normally would be. London was bursting with renewed spirit, even as Lestrade’s was permanently dampened.

The morning of John and Mary’s wedding dawned bright and cheery, the sun filtering through every crack of Lestrade’s window shades. He groaned into his pillow as he was assaulted by the damning rays, hating every second of it.

He had the whole day off so he took his time getting ready. Shower, breakfast, suit and new tie. Shine the shoes. He brushed his teeth and stared at his reflection. At the grey in his hair that only seemed to be getting worse with each passing month. He sighed to himself as he wiped his mouth and ran his fingers through his hair instead of a comb.

John had wrote ‘plus one’ on the invitation but that didn’t happen. He didn’t even attempt to find a plus one. Still, he vowed to put on a happy face and have a good time, for John’s sake.

All that changed however, the moment he spotted Sherlock. Stepping out of the cab he noticed John near the entrance of the church, greeting guests, shaking hands. Lestrade started walking forward, a genuine smile plastered on his face, when Sherlock appeared from inside the church to whisper something in John’s ear. Lestrade froze as he stared up at the spectacle that was Sherlock.

In all the years he’d known him, he’d never seen him look the way he looked that day. He was head to toe polished and perfect. The longtailed tuxedo he wore fit like a glove, the pale shirt and vest striking against the dark fabric of the coat. He stood tall and handsome, a vision next to the ordinary folk around him.

Lestrade made sure his mouth had properly closed before getting any closer. John spotted him and waved.

“Greg! Good to see you.”

He shook John’s hand, pulling him into a quick hug. “Pretty classy,” he indicted to their choice of attire. John smiled. 

“It was Mary’s idea. I told her I’d look ridiculous in tails and a top hat but she insisted. I can’t pull off this look, not at my height. However, _some_ of us don’t seem to be having that issue today,” he pointedly turned to Sherlock with a mocking grin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing. Lestrade shook his head. “Trust me, John, you more than pull it off. Mary will be thrilled. Well I’d better get inside and find a good seat.” He walked into the church, his heart beating a million miles a minute. He sat down in a pew near the front and briefly closed his eyes.

He hadn’t seen Sherlock in a while since he purposefully stopped visiting. He didn’t feel the need to torture himself further, so he stayed away. Futile, really. Just being in his presence again turned his brain to mush and his heart racing. Aside from the fact the man looked fetching and lethally gorgeous, he made Lestrade _ache_ with longing.

Thankfully, he was saved from further depressing musing as Mrs. Hudson made it inside, a big smile on her face when she saw him. They conversed for a while until they were joined by Molly and Tom, and then the ceremony began.

It was short, but nicely done. John and Mary genuinely looked happy and in love. They practically glowed with it. But Lestrade’s gaze kept wandering to the tall, solemn figure standing near the happy couple.

Sherlock’s face remained blank and deceptively indifferent throughout the entire ceremony, as he occasionally brought his hand up to wipe at his damp brow. His hands remained otherwise clasped in front, the slight twitches of his thumbs the only thing belying his calm exterior.

For some reason, Lestrade felt inexplicably sad for Sherlock. Here was a man whose closest friend was essentially moving on with a life away from him. Things would be different and John wouldn’t be at Sherlock’s beck and call any more. He had a different life now. A wife, possibly children. And Sherlock would remain at Baker Street, like a spectre haunting the empty hallways.

He watched as Sherlock, on cue, reached inside his suit jacket to retrieve the small box with the wedding bands, handing them gingerly to John who practically beamed back at him. And then a moment later, it was over. Cheering commenced, Mrs. Hudson sobbed by his side and he clenched her hand tightly in his, more for his own sake he found, as he swallowed around an uncomfortable lump.

***

He grabbed a cocktail the moment he entered the reception hall, as the wedding party was busy with photographs. He casually watched Sherlock from afar as the taller figure looked positively uncomfortable with the excess of flashes going off in his face. Molly and Tom joined Lestrade a few moments later, drinks in hand.

“What a beautiful wedding,” mused Molly with a wistful smile as she stared at the happy couple in the distance. Lestrade watched her as her eyes shifted to Sherlock. A furrow appeared between her brow as she sighed slightly, and took a sip of her drink.

“Yeah,” he said. “Short and sweet, just how I like it,” teased Lestrade. She smiled back at him and they got to talking a bit, before Molly dragged Tom away to mingle further. Lestrade got another drink from the bar and perused the crowd.

He would bet his life savings that John didn’t know ninety percent of the people at his own wedding. He never spoke much about his family or other friends, aside from those he met in the military. So he guessed most of the people in attendance were Mary’s acquaintances, or long-lost relatives.

He walked around the bright hall and his eyes once again found Sherlock’s tall silhouette towards the back. He was pacing back and forth and talking on his mobile. Even from where he stood he could see the frown marring the pale face as the call ended. And then as if he could feel eyes on him, Sherlock slowly turned his head and met Lestrade’s eyes from across the room.

Lestrade stopped breathing as the beautiful blues arrested him on the spot. Slowly he lifted his glass to Sherlock and watched, transfixed, as the tiniest of smiles appeared-- and then it was gone as swiftly, as John approached Sherlock, laying a hand on his shoulder and whispering something to him. Lestrade saw Sherlock nod, reaching for his tie, almost as if it was too tight. And then he stalked away, out of the hall.

Lestrade debated for all of two seconds before he followed. He was suddenly intercepted by John who offered an apology for nearly bumping into him.

“Where you heading, Greg?” 

“Loo. Be back in a minute. Oh, and congrats by the way!”

John beamed. “Thanks!” He laughed. “Why do I feel more nervous about Sherlock’s speech than saying my wedding vows?”

Lestrade paused with a tight smile. “He’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

John took a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Well, hurry back, dinner’s about to start.”

Lestrade nodded and turned away, determined to find Sherlock. He checked the loo but Sherlock wasn’t there, nor did he see him re-enter the hall. He ended up asking one of the servers milling about.

“You seen the best man?”

“Yeah, think so. Went out the back a few minutes ago.”

He thanked her and followed the corridor to the back exit door. The mid-day sun was mild and bright as he stepped outside, eyes immediately glancing around for Sherlock. He found him a few seconds later, near the corner of the building, a cigarette in hand and another half-crunched under his shoe.

The younger man didn’t turn his head as Lestrade approached.

“I don’t require a babysitter.”

Lestrade stuffed his hands inside his pockets as he stopped a few feet away. “I know. Got another?”

Sherlock glanced over at him, eyes inscrutable. He stuck his cigarette between his lips and reached inside his jacket to retrieve the packet. He pulled one out and offered it to Lestrade.

The older man took a step and reached forward, carefully retrieving the proffered cigarette from Sherlock’s trembling fingers. Then Sherlock handed him the lighter and they ended up smoking side by side in silence.

“Sherlock.”

“I’m fine.”

Lestrade sighed. “You’re turning green.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Lestrade stomped out his cigarette and turned to Sherlock. The shallow breathing and shaky hands were a dead giveaway, and he didn’t even want to know what his pulse-rate was.

“God, did you _see_ those people?”

Lestrade turned, surprised that Sherlock was speaking to him. “Yeah, bit of an odd group.”

Sherlock scoffed, flicking what was left of his cigarette away. “No wonder Mycroft refused to come.”

Ah, so that was what had him in such a state. He felt he had no one to ground him. Not here, not in such a place amongst strangers and other plebeian duties. He was out of his comfort zone, _miles_ outside of it, and Sherlock was a nervous wreck, one cigarette away from a full blown panic attack.

He was suddenly in front of Sherlock, inches away from his impossibly pale face, as the younger man’s breath hitched at the sudden intrusion, brows down in question.

He reached forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrists. Unbelievably, Sherlock let him. He turned the shaking hands upwards and grazed his thumb over the pulse-point, noting right away the erratic throbbing.

“What are you doing,” came the tight whisper. Beads of sweat had formed on Sherlock’s brow as his hands shook underneath Lestrade’s grip.

“Breathe, Sherlock. Breathe properly. You know the anatomy of a panic attack. You know it doesn’t have to overcome you. Breathe, and think, Sherlock. Big breaths, come on. Big breaths, and then it’ll be done with.” He rubbed circles with his thumbs across Sherlock’s wrists, keeping him in place and grounded.

“Breathe,” he whispered, and miraculously enough, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “There’s nothing here that you can’t handle. Nothing. It’s just a wedding. Just a bunch of stupid people who you’ll never see again. Just think of John. You planned all this for him, and Mary.”

“John’s leaving.”

Lestrade’s grip tightened. “No. John’s here and he’ll always be here. He chose you, Sherlock. You're his best friend. He’s not going anywhere. Breathe, good, keep going.”

Sherlock’s head leaned back, flush against the cool stone of the building. His eyes remained shut as he continued to take deep, laborious breaths, until his pulse evened out and his colour came back. Lestrade held tight to the pale wrists, slowly drawing circles against the warm skin under the layers of fabric.

Eventually, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, dilated and startled as he stared at Lestrade with a look that was both mortified and curious.

“How did you do that?” he whispered through parched lips.

Ever so slowly, Lestrade let go of his arms and took a small step back. “My mother used to get them when I was younger. Quite frequently for a while.” Embarrassed suddenly, he looked away towards the entryway and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “It would be good if you drank something cool too. Ice water preferably.” He took another step back.

Sherlock stood rigidly, arms limp by his sides. He nodded at Lestrade and ran his hand across his moist brow. “Yes. Thank you for…” he trailed off, looking down at the ground.

“Of course,” Lestrade said. “Can’t have the best man passing out before giving the speech,” he joked with a broad smile. Sherlock sniffed and shook his head in obvious bemusement.

“Come on then,” he said. “Dinner time, I think.”

They walked back inside in companionable silence, Lestrade finding his seat next to Mrs. Hudson and Molly, while Sherlock marched confidently to the head table.

***

Never in a million years could he have guessed that when he woke up that day, ready to attend John’s wedding, that he’d also be embroiled in some insane murder mystery, concluding in the arrest of the wedding photographer. In hindsight however...it _did_ involve Sherlock so then again, anything was possible.

He dragged the suspect away, calling for a squad car to pick him up at the reception hall. He waited outside in the cooling air, mentally shaking his head at the events that just transpired. He hadn’t even had the chance to have his meal properly digest.

When the doors of the car closed with the suspect angrily glaring out of it, Lestrade took a deep breath and went back inside, the sky dark and calm behind him. The dance hall was dimly lit and a bit warm as he made his way towards Molly and Mrs. Hudson. Suddenly, the DJ was announcing the arrival of the new Mr. and Mrs. John Watson and the happy couple entered the hall and glided towards the center of the dance floor.

Everyone clapped, Lestrade joining in, but his heart stuttered painfully when the first note of haunting music pierced the room. His eyes dove to the platform and saw only Sherlock who stood proud and majestic, playing his priceless Stradivarius as John and Mary commenced their first dance as husband and wife.

As all eyes were glued to the happy couple, Mrs Hudson leaned in and whispered in Lestrade’s ear. “Sherlock composed this for them. Spent forever on it. I should know. Kept me up til all hours of the night _perfecting_ it.” She sighed. “It was worth it. Look at them, Greg.”

He looked. He looked at Sherlock. Oblivious to the gaze, Sherlock played, swaying slightly to the melodious cries which he created from nothing. It was beautiful. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. Molly couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man on the platform, even as her fiance stood touching shoulders with her. It was an interesting sight.

He felt a sudden lump in his throat and no matter how hard he tried to will it away, it was lodged tight and Sherlock continued to play, his long fingers effortlessly moving note to note. Sherlock used to play for him. The sudden thought made him dizzy with envy and he stared wistfully at John and Mary, oblivious to his inner turmoil. He needed another drink, or three.

The beautiful waltz ended with thunderous applause as John and Mary shared a delighted kiss. Next to him, Molly had tears in her eyes as she clapped not only for the married couple, but for Sherlock’s beautiful playing. Lestrade followed suit as he raised his arms a bit higher for Sherlock. He noticed the maid of honor enthusiastically cheering for Sherlock near him and a second later she had caught the flower Sherlock tossed to her with a wide grin.

Lestrade frowned. What in the hell…

Sherlock made another short speech of apology for the earlier affair during dinner and then the DJ started doing his thing. Music blared from the giant speakers all around the hall and people started to dance. It was upbeat, and lively and fun, and for a moment, Lestrade joined in, grabbing Mrs. Hudson’s hand and pulling her along for the ride. It was a beautifully carefree moment, suspended in time.

And as his head swayed to the beat, he happened to glance over to his side and noticed a solitary figure, all in dark, making his way out of the dance hall.

Lestrade frowned and searched the room for John who he found dancing ecstatically with Mary. No one noticed Sherlock’s departure. Well, he thought no one did, until he felt a hand on his sleeve. He turned and saw Molly, her eyes troubled and a bit sad. And he understood why.

He sighed and gave her a small smile, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s alright.” Her grateful nod and tight smile made him want to run away and tackle Sherlock. He silently slipped away, actually forgetting to say a word to John or Mary. He briskly walked, trying not to get in the way of people and he glanced out the floor length windows and spotted Sherlock outside, coat on, hands stuffed inside, walking down the path away from them all.

He swore.

He was right next to the bar and without thought he approached, and asked to purchase an entire bottle of Merlot. The bartender looked at him dubiously and it wasn’t until he pulled out his wallet and slapped fifty quid down was he taken seriously. He grabbed the bottle and stormed out.

Finding a cab proved difficult at first and nearly ten minutes later he was finally sitting, barking out “Baker Street”, even though he wasn’t certain Sherlock would be there. Still, he had to start somewhere.

The night was dark, yet bustling as the cab pulled up to Baker Street, with people getting on with their busy weekend plans. Lestrade looked up and noticed the faint glow behind the curtains and breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed his wine and reached inside his pocket. He found the spare key that John had given him, to Baker Street. With the couple leaving on their honeymoon, John wanted some assurance that Sherlock would be looked after, so to speak. He was never so glad for John as he was at that moment.

He used the key and walked inside the quiet building. Mrs. Hudson was still at the reception, so it was just him and Sherlock. The thought sent his mind to places it really ought not to have gone. He put the key back in his pocket and trudged upstairs.

Sherlock’s door was closed so he quietly knocked, hoping his nerves didn’t show on his face. The door swung open and Sherlock was there, blinking back his surprise.

“Greg,” he breathed and Lestrade melted. “What are you doing here?”

Lestrade found it hard to form words so he simply raised the bottle. “I’ve come bearing gifts.”

Sherlock’s brow rose and he stepped to the side to let Lestrade through. “You know I don’t drink.”

“Ah but I know that’s not entirely true. Plus, I think tonight you can make an exception. After all, we are celebrating.”

Sherlock’s face closed off. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie, leaving only the unbuttoned vest, which, paired with the form-fitting trousers and tight shirt made Lestrade’s stomach do flips.

Lestrade ignored the look and went to the kitchen, searching for a corkscrew. “Now, I’m not so big into weddings either, you know. Can’t remember the last time I even went to one.” He finally found it buried in the back of a drawer. “But I actually sort of had fun tonight.” His back turned to Sherlock, he placed the screw over the cork and pushed.

“Then why are you still not there, _having fun_?” quipped Sherlock with a low drawl. A quiet pop sounded.

“Well,” said Lestrade as he reached for a clean glass he managed to find in the cupboard, “gets a tad old after a while. Having fun by yourself.” He filled it three quarters full and turned around, offering the glass to Sherlock.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock reached for it, wrapping his long fingers around the clear globe. Lestrade filled his own wine glass and turned back, lifting it high.

“To John and Mary.” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave his as he copied the movement and clinked his glass to Lestrade’s. They took a healthy gulpful and lowered their glasses. Lestrade momentarily set his back down only to take off his suit jacket, as it was progressively becoming warmer in the flat. Then he grabbed his wine glass and swallowed half of it down before following Sherlock into the living room.

Sherlock meanwhile was removing his vest, dropping it haphazardly over the sofa and unbuttoning his cuffs. Lestrade took another sip as he covertly watched, eyes hooded and intense.

“Well I think my duty was officially fulfilled,” Sherlock suddenly declared. “No need to continue with the charade.” He sank down in his beaten up leather chair, his lips to his glass. Lestrade made a sound of dissent.

“You did good, Sherlock. And I’m not patronizing you. That was one hell of an experience.”

Sherlock looked down at the swirling red liquid. “Yes, well. It was simple enough once I was able to completely zone everybody out. I couldn’t focus.” He frowned, and swallowed the rest of the wine. Lestrade blinked and went to fetch the bottle. He refilled his own glass and Sherlock’s.

Sherlock wasn’t asking him why he had come. Did he want him to? He licked his lips, the wine slowly seeping into his brain, pleasantly. He drank some more. The flat was quiet and warm. Sherlock stared off, contemplative, his eyes relaxed, yet focused. That spark was always there. It was amazing to witness, and a bit startling.

“This is actually not revolting,” Sherlock remarked as he took another sip. Lestrade smiled. “It had better not be, for the price I paid.” It wasn’t bad, actually. He downed his second glass and refilled. Sherlock was watching him pointedly.

“I don’t have to work tomorrow,” he stated, not quite defensively. “Sunday.”

Sherlock quirked a brow. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Oh god, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this. Luckily, Sherlock was still drinking his own wine, the red temporarily staining his thick lips before a pink tongue darted out to clear any droplets off. Lestrade felt warm. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled the sleeves to his elbows. His tie too came off. The wine in the bottle was nearly gone, he saw with remorse. Still, the haziness was growing, turning his limbs to dough, and he relaxed into the sofa, gaze on Sherlock’s quiet form. Seconds ticked by.

“So that maid of honor, or whoever she was. Took quite an interest in you,” Lestrade said, breaking the silence. Sherlock took a deep breath and another big swallow of wine.

“Yep.”

Lestrade pursed his lips. “Did you tell her she was wasting her time?”

Sherlock frowned at that, glancing over to him curiously. “No. Didn’t get the chance. Well that, and she wasn’t completely tiresome. She was certainly a bit more interested than I anticipated.”

Lestrade couldn’t help his deepening scowl. Sherlock noticed, placing his empty glass down on the floor. He leaned back and steepled his fingers together as his elbows rested on the arms of the chair. “Are you so surprised that someone of the opposite sex would actually take an interest in me?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

Lestrade had to laugh. “No. I’m more surprised by the fact that the interest appeared mutual,” and he couldn’t quite mask the note of jealousy he knew Sherlock would pick up on. And indeed, that pompous smirk made its way to that piercing face, and Lestrade ducked his head and played with the rim of his glass.

“I’ve been back for nearly six months, Greg,” Sherlock stated, and Lestrade didn’t even want to pretend to interpret that the way he really hoped it meant. His pulse suddenly sped up, the sound like a bass drum throbbing in his ears.

He shrugged and grabbed what was left of the wine, not even bothering with the glass. Sherlock watched him with hooded eyes, perfectly aware of the tremors in Lestrade’s hands as he raised the bottle to his mouth.

“Haven’t thought about it,” he ventured.

Sherlock lowered his arms. “Liar.”

Lestrade lashed out. “Don’t talk to me of lies, Sherlock. I can’t sweep things away so neatly like some people can.” His pleasant buzz had evaporated, replaced by addled rage. “Nor can I just tuck it away in my mind palace and pretend everything’s fine.”

Sherlock frowned. “That’s not how it works. There’s no getting away from what I’ve done. I can’t just simply forget certain aspects of my life.”

“You know, at this point, I don’t even care what you’ve done. It’s really none of my business and I don’t need the extra guilt swimming around in my conscious. My imagination is fine, thank you.” He scowled into the empty bottle and he placed it back down on the floor with a sigh.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment before standing and walking off towards the kitchen. Lestrade watched as he reached with his long arms towards the back of a cupboard and retrieved a clear bottle of something. More alcohol by the looks of things. Lestrade’s brows rose to his hairline.

Sherlock found two tumblers and poured a liberal amount in both. He returned and handed one off to Lestrade. It smelled divine. And pricey.

“Trying to get me drunk, Sherlock?”

The younger man took his seat, lifting his glass. “Mycroft gave this to me nearly four years ago for Christmas. Twenty-three years old, apparently.”

Lestrade took a swig, eyes widening in appreciation. “Wow. This is the best scotch I've ever had. And I don’t even feel guilty drinking it.” They both drank in the quiet of the flat. It was nice, comfortable.

“Your new flat is much nicer than your old one,” Sherlock segued after he set his tumbler down. Lestrade blinked.

“Well, yea, bit bigger too, though I don’t technically need the extra space. It’s just me. I don’t exactly get many visitors. The combined flavours of liquor were loosening his tongue and he wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or not.

Sherlock hummed. “Except John, of course.”

Lestrade shrugged. “John’s my friend.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, swiping his glass for another sip. “You meant the other sort of visitor.”

Lestrade looked down into his glass, stomach churning. “It doesn’t matter. Not like I have much time for any of that anyway.” He sighed and refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. He wasn’t sure what they would reveal.

“No, that’s not it,” Sherlock remarked after a moment. “You choose to be celibate, and have been for quite some time. It’s quite obvious from the state of your flat, you know.”

“Sherlock…” A warning. Choppy waters ahead. “Really none of your business. You don’t see me scrounging around in your personal affairs.”

Sherlock scoffed with derision. “No, your methods include implying whatever is most convenient for you.”

Lestrade flinched. “I’ve already said I’m sorry. I meant it, all one million times. I’m an arse, I get it. There’s no excuse for it. But this...fishing is just low. Coming from you of all people.”

A shrug. “Mere curiosity. A man like you, highly respected, attractive and single, and choosing to forgo-”

“Not a choice I made lightly,” he said tersely. “I couldn’t see myself as the husband of anyone. It’s not me. I’ve tried marriage once, thanks very much. I refuse to put myself in that position again.” He drank his scotch, the burn soothing the turmoil in his mind. “I’m just not interested. Is that so wrong?” he asked bitterly.

Sherlock watched him with dark, lidded eyes, his lips wrapping around the rim of his glass methodically. “That is your prerogative, of course.” He leaned his head back against his chair, and suddenly changed subjects. “I used to get annoyed whenever John had nightmares. I found it so odd and baffling. How can you not master control of your own mind? How do you allow your fears to overcome you? I never said a word to him about it, but John was always so strong and sure. Why was he so helpless when he closed his eyes?”

Lestrade stared, entranced, as Sherlock continued to speak.

“It wasn’t until I was gone that I realized how unreasonable I was. I can’t even remember the last time I slept uninterrupted the whole night. It’s a strange feeling, to know you really can’t control your mind at all times.”

Lestrade frowned somberly. “Talking helps. Can’t be good suppressing all those memories all the time. How do you stand it?”

Sherlock finished his glass and sighed. “When I’m awake, it’s not as bad. I can forget things, for a while. Shelve them for another time.”

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade said in earnest. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him.

“Please tell me. Talk to me.”

“Why?” Sherlock lazily cocked his head at Lestrade, his eyes cloudy from the drink. Lestrade’s bitterness grew as he stared across at the younger man, cheeks flushed from the alcohol.

“Why?” he repeated. “You’re seriously asking me this? How long have I known you, Sherlock? How many hours did we spend together? And you’re asking me _why_? Good god, has it at all occurred to you that I actually gave a shit about what happened to you? For years, no matter what you did to yourself, or the hell you put me through? Do you think for one second I don’t care about what you went through for three years? What you’re going through now? Christ,” he spat, anger brimming dangerously below the surface. Sherlock stared impassively.

“I can see that you’ve changed, Sherlock. I’m not blind or deaf. Whatever you went through affected you and it fucking _kills_ that you still don’t trust me enough to talk to me. You supposedly died for me. You jumped off a fucking building and pretended to be dead and you’re asking me why I would deign to feel concern over you?” His voice rose with every word but he hardly noticed because Sherlock was still staring at him stone-faced and blank and he was about to take the rest of the (probably) three hundred quid scotch and smash it across Sherlock’s face.

He swallowed what was left in his glass and clanked it loudly against the side table. Then he rose--unsteadily-- to his feet, glaring down at Sherlock in resignation.

“I loved you, you know.” His voice had left him as every syllable echoed with bitterness. He refused to avert his eyes because he was near drunk and foolish and not as brave as his stance would suggest but unfortunately it was out in the open now, and he’d be damned if he took it back. He’d had enough of the vise constantly squeezing his heart to death.

Sherlock blinked slowly, licking his lips as a weary sigh passed through.

“I know.”

Lestrade didn’t dare move, nor could he have if he wanted to. His feet were like lead and his insides burned as the words flashed through him red hot and blinding. He shook his head, once, because he wasn’t completely aware of what just happened.

“I’m not an idiot, Lestrade.” But the words were far from a rebuke. They were accepting and perfectly cognizant. “Don’t you realize why I couldn’t tell you?” he asked, beseeching. “If you had known, you would have done everything you could to stop it. And that would have meant your death. And then what would have been the point? Moriarty’s threats were very real, I assure you.

“So I jumped,”--he sighed-- “and Molly helped me and pumped me with Tetrodotoxin so by the time you saw me on the slab my body temperature had fallen and my pulse was so low you’d never notice unless you actually checked my vitals. You saw what I wanted you to see. And you had to believe it or it would have been me staring down at your own corpse. Or John’s.”

Lestrade’s breathing had escalated with every word, his eyes wide and tortured as he listened to Sherlock recount that awful day, filling in the little gaps that had torn away at Lestrade for years.

“When you came back,” he whispered, his voice scratchy and wrecked, “I wanted to hate you. I think I actually made myself believe that I hated you. That I wanted nothing to do with you.”

Sherlock looked up and sluggishly nodded like it wasn’t news to him. He looked down into his lap silently. “And I lashed out at you in the worst possible way. I used your past against you even though I swore to myself I’d never do that again. What I told Mycroft was true. I wanted to hurt you for leaving like that, for the lie you’d led us all to believe. But it was all bullshit. Because injuring you just made it worse. I was a miserable cock.”

Sherlock shrugged it away. “I don’t care about that. I just-” and his eyes drooped with the energy of it all. The alcohol was clearly settling in, dampening his senses. “John left. And you...I just want to know,” he swallowed thickly, a frown settling on his brow.

Lestrade’s jaw dropped as Sherlock’s wobbly words hit home, his body suddenly inflamed. “Thirty-five years old and you still can’t ask me.”

He marched the five steps to where Sherlock sat and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet. Sherlock’s face was flushed with surprise, his eyes dilated and dark. He smelled like cloves and honeysuckle and expensive scotch.

“No, I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

He slammed his mouth against Sherlock’s, keeping them both upright by sheer will alone. The moan that Sherlock let slip reverberated down Lestrade’s body until he was saturated by need. He released Sherlock’s shirt when he realized he wouldn’t be tumbling backwards and grabbed the sides of his warm face. He sucked on Sherlock’s tongue, tasting the mingling of flavours, devoured his lips until they swelled underneath him and lapped up the scent that was Sherlock.

He harshly grazed his fingers against Sherlock’s scalp, threading through his dark hair until it was painful enough to elicit a sharp gasp from Sherlock, effectively releasing his hold on his mouth. Sherlock was busy too, his long fingers tugging and curling at the waistband of Lestrade’s trousers until they were flush. Lestrade wanted to die as he felt Sherlock’s hard cock pressed against him, scorching hot through the layers of fabric.

Sherlock’s hands suddenly disappeared and he groaned in disappointment until he realized Sherlock was unbuttoning his own shirt. He regretfully leaned back and attempted to do the same with his trembling hands. Sherlock was wonderfully adept at the task, his shirt dropping behind him with ease as his fingers reached for Lestrade, briskly untucking his shirt from his trousers, practically ripping the buttons in the process. Warm hands assisted in the removal of the offending shirt and once again Sherlock was all over him.

Too fucking long. It had been too damn long since he’d done this and he wasn’t going to make it if Sherlock kept at it with such vigor. He blindly located Sherlock’s trouser zip and yanked it down, button popping next. Warmth was surrounding him before he even dug his hand inside. Sherlock was breathing erratically across his skin, warmth tickling his neck, his jaw, tongue grazing across his stubble. He was going to burst before they even did anything.

He pressed his hand against Sherlock’s chest, applying pressure. Sherlock leaned back, eyes questioning, and Lestrade was about to reassure him by telling him he needed a moment to breathe before things ended rather quickly--when he saw them. He found himself stepping back, mouth parted in disbelief. He’d seen the photos of course, but this was different.

“Oh, my god.” He looked up in horror at Sherlock’s eyes, then skimmed back down to his bare torso. His eyes took in every jagged scar and imperfection, marks that had faded and some that never would. It was heart-wrenching and horrifying to witness, to realize that Sherlock had gone through hell and had still lived.

Sherlock must have misinterpreted his unhinged expression, for he saw the younger man stiffen, eyes closing off, and started to back away. Lestrade grabbed his arm right away, pulling him back to him.

“God, _no_. No...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t--”he shook his head in dismay and buried his face under Sherlock’s chin, arms surrounding Sherlock desperately. It was a lengthy moment before he felt Sherlock’s hands on him once more. He felt soothing fingers along his nape, idly massaging the back of his head.

“It doesn’t matter,” he heard Sherlock say. And Lestrade didn’t know what he meant. It didn’t matter that he got hurt? It didn’t matter that he was scarred? His breath hitched.

“Oh god, I don’t care about all _this_.” And his hand found a dimpled scar on Sherlock’s shoulder and caressed it. “I’m just so sorry you had to do it all alone. I wasn’t there...Three years and you could have been _killed,”_ his voice hissed, breaking, and Sherlock leaned back, eyes dark and fierce.

“I’m only here today because I refused to give in. Being home was the only thought that kept me sane all that time. Having a reason to come home to.”

Lestrade kissed him. He didn’t want to hear any more. Not now. It was too painful and that wasn’t what they both needed right now. To think that there was even the smallest of doubts in Sherlock’s head all that time...it made him ache.

Sherlock reciprocated gladly, tugging on Lestrade’s trousers. Somehow they managed to remove both sets, along with their shoes, without tripping or falling. Sherlock nipped on his ear.

“Bathroom, cabinet.” And that was all that Lestrade apparently needed to hear to understand. He hated to break apart even for a moment but he nodded and scurried off. He tore into the cabinet and found the lube and stormed out before a whole minute had passed.

He found Sherlock completely nude, his erection jutting out, swollen and ready. Lestrade nearly fell to his knees at the offering. He hurried over and grabbed Sherlock by the neck and pulled him close once more. He’d never get enough of devouring him, ever. Sherlock was his, even now, after everything. The thought was paralyzing.

Sherlock guided them to his chair--not the bedroom. Not that Lestrade particularly cared at the moment, but it was curious all the same. He sat down and Sherlock, practically glued to him, straddled his lap.

Heat coursed through him, above him, surrounding him. Sherlock suddenly jumped off and was tearing off Lestrade’s boxers before the older man knew what was going on. Both finally naked, Sherlock settled back down on Lestrade.

Lestrade tilted his head back to worship the sight of Sherlock above him. Dark hair and startling eyes that looked right into him, stealing away all his innermost thoughts and desires. Already slick with perspiration Sherlock arched into him as Lestrade’s mouth fell open in a wordless gasp. He closed his eyes against the onslaught and his heart clenched again from all the torture, beautiful as it was.

“Sherlock,” he gasped grabbing hard onto both shoulders and pulling Sherlock against him as hard as he could. Sherlock’s head fell back, exposing long, pale neck, pulsating with life.

Oh god, Sherlock was _alive_ and they were actually doing this. Even now his mind failed to catch up to the truth before him. It made breathing a bit harder as he leaned forward, pressing his cheek to Sherlock’s chest, simply to feel his beating heart against his ear--the final, definitive proof.

Sherlock must have sensed something, for he shushed Lestrade with the barest of kisses against his forehead, gently easing his face upwards.

“Touch me,” came the low growl, and Lestrade’s fears melted sharply away as his libido took a front seat. Without averting his eyes he reached downwards and grabbed the column of hot flesh and watched, enraptured as Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close and his nostrils flared with restraint. He squeezed harder and the moan that he so wanted to hear tore past Sherlock’s lungs and into the stillness of the room.

Lestrade grabbed Sherlock around the neck with his free hand and bit him, just enough. He felt the shudder above him and lapped around the wound, nipping, sucking, until Sherlock was a mess above him.

He knew he had all the time in the word but his body didn't want to hear that. He regretfully released his hold of Sherlock and reached to grab the tube of lube. He squeezed a fair amount and creeped under and blindly fondled Sherlock until he was able to slip a finger in. This went on for a few minutes as Sherlock panted above him, their mouths pressed together until the need for breath became imperative.

When he was satisfied(and when he sensed Sherlock growing antsy) he was able to add a second finger. He felt Sherlock clench and stiffen and he idly wondered if Lestrade was the last partner he had. He didn't dare ask and he knew without a doubt if there were any concerns, Sherlock would have asked to use a condom. He trusted Sherlock with this, so he let all thought slip away.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he was able to whisper as he carefully added a third finger.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarled, face pinched in clear discomfort. He froze, but Sherlock urged him on.

“Don’t _stop_.” The younger man squeezed Lestrade’s shoulders for bearing, eyes shut tight in concentration--or pain. Lestrade bit his lip in worry. If this was the first time in three years then it must be hurting like hell. But Sherlock was a grown man and knew his limits. He took a deep breath and willed Sherlock to relax.

“Breathe, Sher. Open your eyes and look at me.” For a second, nothing happened, but then, clear blue eyes peeled open and found Lestrade’s and froze there, jaw clenched with tension.

“Breathe. I can do this all night if I have to. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I won't...break,” bit back Sherlock, forehead gleaming with sweat. To prove his point he pushed against Lestrade’s hand, eliciting a moan from them both.

“Fuck, don’t rush me, Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned, sweat dripping down his face as well. Sherlock’s erection, which had wilted slightly during some of the more strain-filled moments came back full force, stretched out and boiling against Lestrade’s. He grabbed it then and pumped from hilt to tip, relishing in the shuddering going on above his body.  

“I’m ready,” grunted Sherlock close to Lestrade’s ear and Lestrade shivered, breath caught in his throat. He was about to argue but realized it was futile as Sherlock was practically riding his fingers, so he released a shaky oath and carefully removed his digits. He reached for more lube and coated his prick liberally as Sherlock raised himself up a bit off Lestrade’s lap.

He nearly choked as his tip easily slipped inside, his fingers clenching Sherlock’s forearm as his other hand guided the way in. For a moment, no one drew breath as Sherlock was fully breached. He looked up to find Sherlock flushed scarlet, eyes clenched tight against the sensation. When he knew he didn’t need his hand anymore he reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the neck, thumb pressing against the carotid artery. Sherlock growled low in his throat and his eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. He stared down Lestrade as he was filled to the hilt, and only then did their overworked lungs release the breaths they were holding in.

Lestrade moaned as the delicious and impossible heat enveloped him, and he was certain he wouldn’t last. That was the last coherent thought he had when Sherlock began to move, lifting off of Lestrade and plummeting back down. Harsh gasps and ragged breaths filled the room as they moved as one, mouth to mouth, hands all over.

Hair dripping, Sherlock’s forehead stuck to Lestrade’s as his back arched away from Lestrade’s damp body. The older man grabbed him underneath, fingers groping at his arse, lifting him off his cock and slamming him back down. Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around Lestrade’s neck like a permanent embrace and Lestrade moved a hand from his arse to his weeping cock.

He held tight and stroked, the sweat mixed with pre-come making it simple to glide his fingers up and down Sherlock’s swollen cock, thumb circling the silky tip. Sherlock jerked in his grip and was suddenly coming, jaw clenched, fingers squeezing Lestrade’s shoulders, face obscured by soaking hair. The hot liquid trailing down Lestrade’s chest, combined with Sherlock’s arse clenching around his own cock undid him and he joined Sherlock in release seconds later.

Bones turned to rubber, there was no possibility of moving as he panted, gasping for breath and suddenly, unbearably hot. He was surrounded by body heat, sweat and spunk and he could hardly breath with the dead weight above him.

Sherlock tore his head from Lestrade’s shoulders and leaned back, mouth parted and shaky. Lestrade was about to open his mouth to say...something, but words died before they even had a chance when he looked at Sherlock’s face. He froze, heart stuttering.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, hardly more than a whisper. He reached up with his thumb and caressingly wiped away the trail of liquid seeping from Sherlock’s clenched eye. “Oh god, Sher, did I hurt you, are you-”

“Fine,” came the low tenor, voice weak and shaky. “I’m fine.” He hastily reached up and swiped at his face, sniffing once before taking a deep breath.

Lestrade sat perfectly still. This was so...out of place he didn’t know what to do. In all the years he’d known Sherlock he never saw him shed a tear, save for his overly dramatic stage tears he exhibited for interviews. This was...troubling and heartbreaking.

And yet he didn’t want to draw attention to it, knowing how Sherlock was. He pulled him closer instead, arms tight and supportive around Sherlock’s damp body.

“You’re amazing, Sherlock,” he whispered, because he needed to tell him. He needed him to know how much he was missed and how much Lestrade cared for him. He felt Sherlock sigh as fingers ran through his short hair pleasantly. “Shower, I think,” he added, now that he was fully aware exactly how disgustingly sticky they both were. Sherlock leaned back and nodded lazily.

He slowly eased off Lestrade, unable to control the wince or hiss of pain. Lestrade frowned apologetically, but didn’t say a word. True enough, they were both a mess, as was the chair.

Thank goodness for leather.

They showered under a boiling spray, the water washing away their earlier adventure. It started innocent enough, but Lestrade couldn’t keep his hands off Sherlock for long. So he turned Sherlock towards the wall and reached around and found his hardening cock and jerked him slowly off, while his body leaned over Sherlock’s back, one arm braced against the wall for support.

Sherlock’s forehead rested on the wet tile, hands splayed against the smooth wall. Even in the warmth of the shower he saw the patches of red across Sherlock’s back as he approached climax. Lestrade ground into him from behind, lavishing his back and neck with hungry kisses as his tongue grazed across a random scar. His own cock was hard and needy against Sherlock’s skin but he ignored it in favour of pleasuring Sherlock. His free hand found Sherlock’s against the tile and intertwined their fingers as Sherlock stiffened with release, nearly dropping to his knees.

After a moment of harsh, ragged breathing the younger man turned, face red and debauched and kissed Lestrade almost reverently before crouching down.

“No, you don’t have to do-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock simply said, and swallowed Lestrade’s cock.

The heat was making him dizzy by the time his orgasm rocked him, his hands glued to Sherlock’s scalp probably painfully. He huffed for a bit before reclining back against the tiled wall, out of energy and breath.

Then they really did finish their shower, Lestrade massaging Sherlock’s scalp with the overpriced shampoo he found, leaving his dark hair smelling clean and almost minty. It was late by the time they toweled off, too exhausted to do much of anything.

They lay in Sherlock’s bed, in the dark, naked and relaxed. Lestrade’s mind was a pleasant hum of thoughts, all good for once. Sherlock was quiet next to him, idly toying with the older detective’s greying locks.

“Greg.”

Lestrade was actually startled by the quiet sound, so close to his ear.

“Yea, Sher.”

The younger man was silent a bit longer, still running his fingers mindlessly through the short hair, never faltering.

“I had a woman visit me two nights ago. A potential client.”

Lestrade murmured that he was following. There was almost a cautious tone to Sherlock’s voice that was troubling him, but he stayed quiet and waited for Sherlock to continue.

“She has brought to light an...intriguing proposition. And she’s asked for my help.”

“Who is she?”

“It’s not important,” Sherlock easily dismissed. “But she is being harassed, in a manner of speaking. By someone with influence. This man, he holds power over people. And he knows how to use it. She’s asked for my help.”

Lestrade leaned up on his elbows, effectively stopping Sherlock’s ministrations on his scalp.

“Sher...this isn’t anything dangerous, is it? Or illegal?”

In the dark of the room it was hard to make anything out, but he heard Sherlock swallow and sigh.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock pointedly asked, and Lestrade froze. Because the old Sherlock wouldn’t be asking this and his stomach churned unpleasantly at the implication that Sherlock had to question the fact.

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “But now you’re scaring me, Sherlock. What’s going on?”

Sherlock sank further into the cushions with a deep sigh. “Nothing. Yet. I just wanted to tell you.”

“Tell me what.” His heart was hammering behind his ribcage and he reached his hand out, grabbing Sherlock’s. He felt the slight squeeze in response, and he relaxed marginally.

“To trust me. No matter what you may hear down the line.”

Lestrade sat up, reaching for the nightstand to turn on the lamp. Dim yellow light, obscured by the pale shade enveloped the room. He turned to properly look down at Sherlock.

“You can’t say that to me and not expect questions. What’s going on?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I just wanted you to be aware. In case I don’t see you for a while.” His pale face, illuminated by the light appeared fragile and harsh, angles and dark eyes and expressionless. But Lestrade knew better.

“You’re really not going to tell me,” he started grimly, “after everything...after _tonight_?”

Sherlock turned to him, lips pursed. “You said you trusted me.”

Lestrade turned his head. He did. He did trust Sherlock. He meant what he said. But he couldn't shake the dread he felt from listening to this conversation. It was like Sherlock was preparing him for something. He was at a loss as to what, and Sherlock wasn’t spilling. And he knew if he pressed the issue, he’d backslide with Sherlock and that wasn’t what he wanted.

He released a regrettable sigh. “I trust you, Sher. He turned back and leaned over, pressing a firm kiss to Sherlock’s lips. He felt the man shift next to him, felt warm hands along his bare skin. There wasn’t anything erotic or wanting in the gesture. It was just...nice, soothing. He reached back and turned the light off, allowing the darkness to settle once more.

He laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, felt the warm fingers continue their caress, and allowed the tranquil sound of the beating heart beneath to lull him to sleep.

 

 

 


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay... Thank you for all the comments and kudos, I really appreciate them!  
> SPOILERS for His Last Vow

Sherlock disappeared twenty-four hours after John’s wedding. Lestrade knew this because Mrs. Hudson called Lestrade, concern dripping from her voice. Claimed Sherlock told her not to touch anything in his flat, and to not let anybody else in. And then just left.

There was nothing unusual in Sherlock taking off, nor should Mrs. Hudson have thought anything of it, except that he hadn’t returned back to his flat four days later. He told her he’d look into it, and she thanked him, relieved.

He released a panicked breath, set his phone down and stared down at his desk a moment before picking it back up.

      _Sherlock, everything ok?_

_Yep. SH_

The instantaneous response was both comforting and odd. He envisioned Sherlock’s face, irritatingly placating him from a distance. He automatically moved his fingers.

      _Working then?_

_Yes. Busy. SH_

He called Mrs. Hudson back and told her not to worry.

***

There were two murders. Unconnected, but still very curious. Near opposite ends of the city. It was exhaustive work and it kept him busy for days. So many days in fact, that two weeks had passed and he realized over coffee one day that that was also the amount of time that he’d last spoken with Sherlock. He hadn’t laid eyes on him in over two weeks.

He put down his mug and glanced around his office like it held answers to his unspoken questions. A nasty feeling of unease slowly overtook him without cause or logic. His phone pinged and he nearly jumped out of his chair. Hopeful, he looked down.

It was John.

      _Back from our honeymoon! Tuscany was nice but glad to be back. Any news? How’s Sherlock? Is Baker Street still in one piece?_

Lestrade stared down at his mobile with trepidation. So John had not been in contact with Sherlock either. No surprise, really, as he _was_ on his honeymoon for two weeks, but still, he was blissfully unaware of Sherlock’s whereabouts and that didn’t sit well.

He thought long and hard before answering. To placate him with lies was not the way to go about it. To scare the crap out of him two seconds after he’d entered the country was also out.

He bit his lip.

      _Welcome back! Baker Street is intact. Sherlock is working. Very mysterious._

_I’ll give him a ring later. See you soon, Greg!_

He put his phone down and resumed sipping on his cold coffee.

***

He went to the flat. He still had the key and he simply couldn’t take another day of nothing. He marched right in like it was a common occurrence and proceeded to sweep the room with his eyes. He noted the cleanliness (Mrs. Hudson, obviously), and the lack of experiments in the kitchen, and the near empty refrigerator.

He went inside Sherlock’s bedroom. The bed was made, but haphazardly. He frowned. Sherlock was either a slob, or a meticulous madman. A dark blue dressing gown was laying bunched up on the bed. Sherlock’s favourite. Dread pooled in his stomach and he couldn’t even say why.

He went back out to the living room and that’s when it hit him. He noted it upon entering, but thought nothing of it since it was hardly apparent. But leaving Sherlock’s room seemed to magnify it. The smell. Or more precisely, the scent. It was very mild and innocuous, but hit Lestrade like a punch in the gut. Perfume. Not cologne. Not nearly bold enough. He didn’t have Sherlock’s nose but he knew women.

He dismissed Mrs. Hudson right away for reasons he couldn’t say. This smelled...young, flowery and vibrant. Not the usual choice for an older woman. Plus, he’d never even noticed Mrs. Hudson wearing perfume in the years he’d known her. He looked around some more.

A plate and saucer in the sink. A dirty spoon. Rubbish bin nearly empty save for a discarded tissue and-- he bent closer and reached inside. He pulled out a thin, metallic object. His mind drew a purposeful blank for a second before the obvious, inevitable conclusion reached him. A hairgrip. He dropped it back down as if it burned his fingers.

He took a step back, then another, and twenty seconds later he was outside, his heart clattering in his chest and his stomach revolting. The bright June sun shone on his head where he stood, and his body shook uncontrollably.

Calm. He needed to be calm. He was overreacting, clearly. He was overthinking everything. He needed to be calm.

He went home and paced. He didn’t call Sherlock. He didn’t text him, or bother him. The thought crossed his mind every five seconds but he didn't give in. He didn’t want to talk to Sherlock without a clear mind. And right now his head thrummed with visions and theories and circumstantial evidence.

He needed to properly think it through, before jumping on Sherlock for something that wasn’t there. He couldn’t stop shaking. It wasn't even cold and now his head was pounding, the slow, dull burn escalating since his hurried removal from Sherlock’s flat. Now it was destroying his ability to think rationally. Now it was just pure pain.

He sat down, jamming the palms of his hands against his eye sockets. His hands felt clammy and cool even as the rest of him was boiling.

He texted John.

      _Hey, any word from Sherlock?_

_No...He’s not responding to my texts or calls. It’s been almost a week._

He swallowed, feeling a swell of nausea. He tampered it down and searched his mobile for a contact. Steeling himself, he started to type.

      _Mycroft. Do you know where Sherlock is?_

Ten torturous minutes later:

      _Working, I imagine. I just spoke with him. MH_

_You’ve actually talked to him? Did he say where he was??_

He scratched at his neck while waiting for the reply.

      _Yes, we spoke, briefly. He is in London, according to his mobile location. Is there a problem I should be aware of? MH_

Lestrade took a deep breath. If Mycroft was asking, it was probably nothing. Mycroft knew everything. If Sherlock were in trouble, he’d know about it first. The probability was great anyway. And he said he’d spoken with him. Lestrade released the breath in a big rush, body temperature slowly returning to normal.

      _No, nothing. He’s been silent is all. John was starting to worry._

_John? MH_

Fuck. He pushed his phone away and went to change. He went for a run, because it had been too long and he needed to clear his head. Despite what Mycroft told him he still felt off, unnerved. Maybe it was the general effect Sherlock always had on him.

That evening he got a call about a possible breakthrough with one of his murder cases, and for a brief moment, all thoughts of Sherlock were pushed to the background.

***

A month since John’s wedding. A month since he’d laid eyes on Sherlock, touched Sherlock. It was startling, how much time had actually passed and yet it felt like yesterday. He could recall every detail of how Sherlock felt that night. Every scar he traced with his tongue. Every sound that passed those lips. The look on his face post rapture, unmasked, vibrant.

He gnawed on a fingernail as he attempted to read a file. Two hours sitting in his flat with a beer and his work. It was useless. He couldn’t process a word of what he’d read. He dropped the file and ran his fingers through his hair. He was slowly losing it.

Something was wrong.

He knew it, he sensed it, and no matter what Mycroft’s texts said, he could feel the impending sense of doom hanging over his head, about to drop. It was only a matter of when. His phone sat on the sofa, untouched for hours, the window open to reveal unanswered text after text. He swiped his finger to the last one.

      _Sherlock, answer me. Please._

Sent four hours ago. He swallowed and took a swig of his beer. Every breath he took felt strained and his muscles hurt from the tension. Every waking second felt like running a marathon with no end in sight. He couldn’t even concentrate on his job any more. Something had to give. Soon.

***

He read the morning paper slowly, methodically. He was looking for something. A clue, an article, an exposé. Something to possibly hint at Sherlock’s month-long activity. It was a daily ritual for close to a week now. Maybe something had been picked up by the press. A murderer caught. A child molester, beaten to a bloody pulp and thrown on the steps of the police. A recovered stolen priceless artifact returned to its rightful owner. Something. Anything.

He closed the newspaper finally with a dull sigh, and took a bite of his soggy cereal. His mobile sounded. Not a text. He glanced down and dropped his spoon in the bowl, milk droplets everywhere.

“Sherlock.” He attempted to sound natural, but knew he failed miserably.

“Inspector.”

“Where are you?” God he sounded panicked to his own ears. Sherlock must be having a field day.

“Bart’s.”

He frowned. “Why? Are you okay?”

He heard the sigh and the pause, but the voice was even. “I’m fine. I don’t have much time at the moment. I need to talk to you but it’ll have to wait.”

“What? No, I’m not waiting, I’ve been waiting, Sherlock. Where were you for a month? What’s going on?” He was standing and he didn’t even realize it. He swallowed and tried to calm his nerves.

“I’m fine, I’m with John. I’m going back to the flat right now. Do not go there and I will come by your place later.” He paused. “And Greg...if you hear anything in the meantime. Anything-- I really--- I need you to hear it from me. Not anyone else. Do you understand?”

Lestrade’s skull felt like it was cracking open. “No I don’t fucking understand, Sherlock. What are you talking about and why are you whispering? What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll see you later, Greg.”

The line went dead. Lestrade couldn’t breath for close to a minute as he lowered his shaky arm, phone crashing to the table. He braced his hands on the edge of the table and shut his eyes, sucking in a deep breath when he felt stable enough to do so. He released it in jittery intervals, eyes slowly fluttering open.

He sank back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands as horrifying visions and scenarios played in his mind. Speaking with Sherlock did nothing to calm his nerves. In fact, it escalated his sense of doom exponentially and was truly apprehensive for their meeting later tonight.

And now he had to suffer through actual work and physically making it through the day, pretending everything was fine. He sucked in a deep breath and proceeded to get on with his day.

***

There were days when he thought things couldn’t possibly get worse. Those were rare but when they occurred they threw him out of balance, made him rearrange his way of thinking. On those days he wanted to crawl into bed and pretend that everything was normal. But nothing really was. With Sherlock, normal was not even a concept, it was a joke. Sherlock viewed the world differently than everyone around him and everything he said or did, no matter the consequence, had a distinct purpose. Lestrade just wished Sherlock would let him in on those reasons.

***

His mobile rang as he was stepping out of a meeting. His stomach twisted when he saw it was John. He strode to his office briskly as he hit Talk.

“John. What’s going on?”

He shut his door and stood against it, his heart madly beating deep in his chest. There was a few anxious seconds of silence before John’s voice, laced with tension, started to talk.

“Greg. Sorry to call at work. I just-- I needed to talk to someone and oh god…” He heard deep breathing in the background, as if John moved his phone away from his ear to steady himself.

“John?” He swallowed, feeling ill.

“I’m here, sorry. Sorry. Just...I’m at a loss at the moment. I just spend the entire morning with Sherlock and-- oh god I--” he cut off again. Lestrade slowly walked towards his desk and sank in his chair. He didn’t speak. He waited for John, because he was too scared to actually ask anything.

“Oh god, I don’t even know where to begin. Should I start with the fact that I found Sherlock in a drug den this morning? Or the fact that he didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. Or maybe I should talk about the woman I found coming out of Sherlock’s bedroom later on? And not just any woman, _ohhh_ no. It was Mary’s bloody maid of honor, Janine. I...I...What-- no, I can’t really talk about any of that right now. I can’t even bloody think.”

Lestrade saw red and then it melted into a hazy white and for a moment he saw nothing. If he were not sitting already he’d be knocked over on the floor, of that he had no doubt. He choked on his words, his mouth becoming numb with shock.

A woman.

Oh my god. He knew it. He knew it when he saw the damned hair pin. His head swayed and he felt his grip on his phone loosening. John’s muffled voice brought him back.

“...Greg? You there?”

He swallowed thickly and moved his phone back to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here, John.” His voice was dead. Every drop of energy evaporated from him and he sat, listless and untethered as John ranted on.

“I’m supposed to be meeting him later to...uuunghh I don’t even know what we’re supposed to be doing. And Mary’s at work and I’m walking around because I can’t sit still. I don’t know what to think right now. I don’t know why he’d do something like this. This isn’t like him. God, a _girlfriend_?”

Lestrade hit End. He dropped his phone and placed his head in his hands, his eyes squeezing shut against the assault of imagery his mind conjured up. He was going to be sick. He felt suddenly, unbearably tired, like he could sleep for days without waking.

He shuddered as goose pimples trailed across his entire body and a lump formed large and uncomfortable in his throat. He clenched onto his hair until it pulled on his scalp, painful and grounding.

He sat at his desk without moving for over an hour before deciding he wasn’t going to contact Sherlock. About anything. He’d never manage that conversation anyway. He couldn’t even lift his head.

Some rational part of his brain(still existing) told him that he was overreacting. That there was a perfectly logical explanation for everything. That Sherlock would call and explain everything and it would be all right. But as he sat, unmoving, without a single call or text, he realized how utterly stupid he actually was for even entertaining that thought.

He eventually got up and went to the loo, splashing water all over his ashen face. He took a swig from the tap and braced his palms against the edge of the sink. He took deep breaths and waited another five minutes before he felt presentable enough to go back to work.

***

Hours passed, every minute an agonizing lifetime. He received no further calls, just one text from John, apologising for freaking out on him earlier, and letting him know he’d call once he found out what Sherlock was planning that evening. Lestrade in turn thanked him and left it at that.

He was getting ready to head home for the evening when they got a call about a body. Lestrade sighed and went along, figuring he’d much rather stay busy until he heard anything further from John. Or Sherlock, who did promise to stop by and speak with him.

The night was muggy and dense, a low fog settling across the landscape. Sally was talking with the man who found the body-- a female, mid-twenties, with multiple stab wounds. Lestrade sipped on his coffee because if he didn’t get caffeine, he’d be down for the count in a matter of minutes.

He craned his neck sharply, revelling in the loud crack that echoed. He replicated the movement on his other side. He was too tense, he knew. Too wired, yet excruciatingly tired. He couldn’t wait to sleep. His phone sounded. He reached inside his jacket to grab it, saw it was John and stepped a few feet away to answer.

“Yea, John.”

“Sherlock’s been shot!”

His styrofoam cup crashed to the earth, lid flying, coffee splattering across pavement and shoes. He was running before he took his next breath, faces swirling past him. Sally calling to him. He ran, swinging the car door open, crashing into the seat.

“Where is he?” he breathed as his vision blurred dangerously. He sounded the car’s alarm and sped out. “Where is he, John? John!”

“He’s at Royal London A&E. God, Greg, he got shot in the chest.” Lestrade heard John’s voice break and shudder. “I’m coming by now!” He hung up without another word, throwing his phone on the passenger seat. His mind was on autopilot as he steered dangerously throughout the city, breaking nearly every driving law.

He drove up right in front of the A&E ambulance entrance and dove out of his car, crashing through the front doors. It wasn’t the first time he’d been there so he knew exactly where to go. He stormed through the halls, flashing his badge without a word, not even glancing at anyone who who dare to stop him.

He went through the surgical ward entrance and immediately spotted John pacing around in the small waiting room.

“John.” He was out of breath as he approached the other man, who glanced at him with relief and trepidation.

“Greg... Oh god, he’s in surgery and it’s a fucking chest wound.” He took a shuddering breath and blew it out with his eyes shut tight.

“What the hell happened? Who shot him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. We were going to Magnussen’s office and oh god it was insane and then we got separated for like a minute and next thing I know Sherlock’s on the floor and barely breathing.”

“Wait, Magnussen? As in Charles Magnussen? Why were you guys there?”

John threw himself in the nearest chair, unable to deal with physical activity at the moment. He sighed, rubbing his face. “Sherlock said it was for a case.” He let out a hysterical giggle, like the entire situation was completely insane. Lestrade took a seat next to him.

“John,” he licked his lips. “You need to tell me if he’s going to be ok.” John was a doctor. He would know. He was there and he’d know if Sherlock…

John looked up at him with a distressed expression, his mouth moving but nothing coming out. He suddenly sprang back up again, and resumed his pacing. “It’s bad, Greg. It...didn’t look good.”

Lestrade looked down at his shoes as the room started to spin. His pulse was erratic and his blood pressure was through the roof and he was going to pass out any minute. He was glad to be sitting because he would have keeled over otherwise.

“John…” He closed his eyes as the most unimaginable thought coursed through him. A world without Sherlock. The brilliance burnt out like a light, a life extinguished in the blink of an eye. His chest hurt.

“I know,” whispered John as a trembling hand wrapped itself around Lestrade’s shoulder. It stayed there for a while, anchoring them both, until they heard the doors to surgery open. Both heads jerked up at the sound and stood, wordless as they watched a strained-looking doctor approach.

Lestrade forgot to breath--couldn’t breath, as his chest felt caved in.

“Are you family of Mr. Holmes?” the doctor asked in the flattest of tones.

John swallowed, clearing his throat. “I’m his flatmate, or err, was. And this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. We’re friends, please tell us…” he trailed off.

The doctor sighed. “Mr. Holmes is extremely lucky. We actually lost him before we could even begin surgery but by some miracle his heart started back up after a few seconds of uncertainty. We were able to remove the bullet with minimal blood loss and he is now out of surgery. He is still sedated so we cannot allow visitors at this time, but as soon as we have him moved to recovery he may be allowed one visitor, and very briefly.”

Lestrade couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His mouth had dried up as soon as the doctor mentioned Sherlock had actually _died_ for a brief moment. He slowly sank back in his chair and he vaguely heard John asking additional questions and thanking the doctor, whatever his name was. He placed his hand against his chest to quell the panic and the constriction he felt every time he took a breath.

“Greg, you okay?”

He shook his head, repeatedly. “No, John. I am so far from okay. There is not even a bloody word for what I am.” He leaned forward and dropped his head in his hands as his heels pressed firmly against his brow.

John sighed. “I was there, and I didn’t even see it happen. Oh god, if he came alone, he’d be dead by now.” And then John was sitting, his position a mirror of Lestrade’s. They sat solemnly in silence for close to an hour before Greg sprang up.

“I need a cigarette.” He didn’t explain further but John just nodded in understanding.

He smoked outside, going through three cigarettes before he was semi-calm enough to re-enter the hospital. There was no coherent thought in his mind. Nothing but pain, and disbelief. He had almost lost Sherlock. The thought was debilitating and somewhat ironic, given he thought Sherlock was dead for three years.

He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and went to rejoin John. He found him in pretty much the same depressing position, looking a mess. He sighed, sank in the chair next to him, and sat shoulder to shoulder until a nurse came out to inform them that Sherlock had been moved to recovery.

“You go,” John said quietly. Lestrade was about to protest for some reason but John still looked like a tank had run him over so he nodded, gripped his shoulder in silent thanks, and followed the nurse.

Sherlock looked like a corpse and his mind reeled from the shock and from the deja vu. He was suddenly back in the morgue, staring down at the pasty, unmoving form that was Sherlock. Now, instead of blood splatters he found tubing sticking out of Sherlock’s mouth and nose and IV drips and god only knew what else. He looked a mess, skin ashen and near translucent. He stared down at his other arm, the one not currently hooked up to anything.

He shuddered and mentally cursed at the oh so familiar bruising at his inner arm, evidence of what John was spouting earlier. His blood boiled as he stared at the offending marks. He closed his eyes against the sight and opened them up only to find the nurse looking at him with sympathy and pity.

He glanced at the machines around Sherlock’s bed, at the heart monitor, and relaxed ever so slightly. The nurse smiled apologetically at him as she motioned for him to step out. He hated leaving Sherlock but he morosely shuffled back to the waiting room to report to John.

John took one look at him and sighed, defeated.

“He’s gonna be under observation for the time being and heavily sedated at least for the next few hours so there’s no use sitting around here. They won't let us see him for a while anyway.” John must have been speaking with the doctor. He nodded, eyes drooping.

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

It sounded odd, that John should be apologizing to him. “What for?” He glanced sideways at John, curious suddenly.

John shrugged, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have let him go there. Not after this morning. God, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was still high from whatever he shot up when I found him. I shouldn’t have let him go. Maybe if he was fully functional, he would have noticed the fact that someone was trying to kill him,” he finished bitterly.

Lestrade closed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him. “Nothing you could have done. He would have gone regardless. You know Sherlock, he would have found a way. As to who shot him, well, when he wakes, I’m sure he’ll give us some insight. As for everything else…” he looked away. “I plan to have a talk with him as soon as he is able to speak.”

“I’m gonna wait for Mary,” John murmured. “She’s supposed to close the clinic and she texted and told me she’d come here when she got out.”

Lestrade nodded and sighed. He looked down at his phone. He had numerous missed calls and messages from Sally. He knew he needed to get back to the Met, find out what was going on. He sort of just left everyone hanging when he sprinted off to the hospital. He told John he was headed back into work and if there were any changes or setbacks with Sherlock, to contact him immediately.

Sally looked slightly shocked when Lestrade told her what happened. The abbreviated version anyway.

“Who shot him?” she asked with wide eyes. He shrugged. “John didn’t see anyone and Sherlock isn’t talking just yet. I’m gonna go back to see him in the morning and get whatever details I can get.”

Sally nodded, took one look at him and mentioned she was going to make coffee. He thanked her with a nod and a sigh, and went to check in with the rest of his team.

He didn’t make it home until nearly four in the morning. Maybe it was to keep busy and not think about Sherlock lying comatose did he stay so late, but now he happily crawled inside his flat and promptly passed out on his sofa. He had gotten no further calls from John so he assumed all was well. He fell asleep and slept right through his alarm.

He awoke with a crick in his neck and anxiety prickling his inner core. He sat up, glanced at the clock and swore. He checked his messages--none from John, and texted Sally to let her know he was running late but wouldn’t get in until he spoke with Sherlock.

He took a quick shower, changed, swallowed two migraine pills and left his flat. He chewed on his thumb nail the entire way to the A&E, his stomach in knots. Morning had a funny way of shining light on things, and now that he knew Sherlock was going to be all right, he also had to deal with the rest of the issues plaguing his mind.

Drugs and a girl and a mysterious job. He closed his eyes in the cab until they arrived at the entrance. When he got upstairs, Mycroft was there, conversing with the doctor. Lestrade waited off to the side for a moment until they were done, and then Mycroft approached, umbrella in hand.

“Inspector.”

“How is he?” He tried to appear collected and inquiring, but he knew he was fooling no one.

“He’s asleep. Or more precisely, sedated. The doctors thought it best for the time being. Plus, I did mention what a difficult patient Sherlock could be.”

Lestrade sighed. He really wanted to speak with Sherlock, or at least see with his own eyes that he was okay.

“I assume you have questions,” Mycroft stated, surprising Lestrade. He slowly nodded. “How much do you know?”

“I don’t know who shot him, if that’s what you were wondering. I do however know about the drugs and where he’s been for a month.”

Lestrade frowned. “Why would you tell me any of this?”

Mycroft looked slightly irritated, but it wasn’t directed at Lestrade. He stared off down the corridor. “Because you will find out one way or another. And I’d rather you not throttle my brother until you’ve had all the information. Or until he was healed, at least.” Lestrade couldn’t be sure if Mycroft had just made a joke, but he held out his arm for Mycroft to proceed.

They ended up at the small cafe downstairs, two terrible cups of coffee between them. Lestrade sat, grim-faced as he listened to Mycroft’s ridiculous tale. When he was finished, he sat back in his chair, blinking owlishly at Mycroft.

“So you’re telling me Sherlock purposefully returned to sticking himself with needles to get the attention of Magnussen? What the hell for? Who is this guy anyway? I mean, aside from what everyone knows of him? Why would he be interested in what Sherlock does, and vice versa?”

Mycroft licked his lower lip, as if debating how much information to give him. “A woman contacted Sherlock with a problem. A Lady Smallwood. She was receiving some unwanted contact from Magnussen and went to my brother for assistance. He accepted, knowing precisely the type of person Magnussen was. He tried to get his attention. And he has succeeded, in more ways than one.”

“You think Magnussen had something to do with Sherlock getting shot.”

Mycroft looked thoughtful, hands clasped on the tabletop. “I don’t think so. That isn’t his style. That’s not who he is. But Sherlock was shot in Magnussen’s office so I believe whoever held the gun was also after Magnussen for something. I do mean to find out what.”

“I’m sure you will,” Lestrade replied with a strange sense of relief. He still had a million questions but he didn’t feel comfortable talking of them with Mycroft. He went back to work, tired and stressed.

John called him in the evening from the hospital. “He’s doing well. The doctors have cut back on everything but the morphine for the pain. Sherlock must be in heaven,” he joked blandly.

Lestrade huffed a depressed laugh. “Yeah, I imagine so. You think he’d be awake long enough for me to stop by tomorrow?”

“Should be. I don’t have clinic in the morning, so I’ll make sure he knows you’re stopping by.”

“Thanks, John.” He waited a beat. “John, what’s going on with this Janine girl? Who is she to Sherlock?”

John heaved an irritable breath. “Oh god, I can’t even explain that without being embarrassed to be Sherlock’s friend. Apparently he befriended her after the wedding simply for the sole purpose to get close enough to her to use her to get to Magnussen. She works for him, directly with him and he essentially got close enough to her to get access to his office. How do you think we got up there? He fucking bought a ring for Christ’s sake. I thought I was gonna be ill. I still can’t believe that he’d stoop that low.”

Lestrade’s ears were ringing. Oh my god. It was actually true. Sherlock really did fake a relationship with another woman just to use her for his own gains. His blood boiled.

“Fucking kidding me.”

“I wish I was,” John replied somberly. “I should have known as soon as I saw them together. It was so odd and felt so wrong my mind wouldn’t even wrap around the idea that Sherlock was in an actual relationship. I should have known it was all a fucking ruse. The day Sherlock Holmes falls in love with someone is the day Hell freezes over.”

Lestrade swallowed painfully. “Yea, you’re right. The whole notion is preposterous.” He closed his eyes as his gut twisted painfully. He hung up after saying bye and sat stoically at his desk, unblinking, unmoving.

***

He followed John as he spoke animately about Sherlock’s recovery. “He’s still a bit loopy and rambling non stop, but he’s wide awake at least, and talking.”

“And the shooter?”

John shook his head. “Says he’s drawing a blank. So either the shooter wore a mask, or his memory has a few holes.”

Lestrade scoffed. “Yeah right, that’ll be the day.” They rounded the corner to Sherlock’s room and stepped inside--and slammed in their tracks. The bed was empty, as was the rest of the small room. They madly looked around until their eyes snapped to the open window, shades billowing from the breeze.

“Oh, god.”

***

Lestrade paced and ranted. John followed suit, in a more organized manner. They called everyone they could think of that knew Sherlock well enough to assist. They thought of every place Sherlock would go to, realistically. Lestrade had some ideas, as did practically everyone else. In the end, he left John at Baker Street, demanding he call immediately with any word.

He went to Mycroft, who looked a bit green around the edges. But even he was not able to shed a light on Sherlock’s whereabouts. He took a cab to a few locations he remembered Sherlock mention at one point or another. Safe places he could calmly escape to, to think or just for a bit of quiet. That proved fruitless too.

He called Sherlock’s mobile nonstop. Always got his voicemail. His hands shook and he ran out of cigarettes finally, as the night progressed.

He always knew Sherlock would one day give him a heart attack. He was certain that day had come. He finally went back to his flat and sat in the dark, fists pressed against his chin, fingers thumping against skin repeatedly.

It was absolutely useless. If Sherlock wanted to remain hidden, no one alive would find him. He knew it, and he knew it was pointless to continue in the search, but the thought of Sherlock with a fresh gunshot wound alone out there somewhere was too much to bear.

At midnight, he got the call from Mycroft. Sherlock was back at the hospital, after returning briefly to Baker Street with John and Mary. The circumstance of the visit was unknown, but Sherlock was rushed in an ambulance to the hospital with further blood loss and extreme pain. John was with him at the hospital, waiting for further news. Mycroft’s voice sounded clinical and far away as he recounted to Lestrade the latest news.

He thanked him and flung his phone away. He did not go to the hospital. He did not call John. He got up and found some sleeping pills and fell into blissful unawareness.

***

He sat in a chair to the side of the hospital bed, body hunched over, forearms on knees, fingers intertwined. His head hurt. It hung low, his eyes avoiding the harsh lighting that was currently illuminating Sherlock’s pale, sickly features.

He couldn’t remember the last time he ate something. Hours, days? He was extremely tired, despite the eight uninterrupted hours he got thanks to the sleeping pills. His body ached from unrest, wound so tight he was surprised he hadn’t snapped already. His ears picked up every beep and blip from the numerous machines surrounding the bed, and once again he was transported to another time, and another hospital, and to a much younger Sherlock, lying in a similar state.

He swallowed and his throat hurt. He wondered if he was getting sick. His mind was foggy and his sinuses throbbed. His throat prickled around the saliva. His heart beat steady, for once. He’d been sitting for a while, hadn’t budged in hours in fact. Nurses came and went and still he sat, through visiting hours and beyond, as he received irritated looks and he lazily flashed his badge. Afterwards the questioning eyes stopped so he was sure Mycroft might have had something to do with that.

At around ten, as quiet settled around the hospital, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open. Lestrade knew this because he heard the intake of breath, as sleep dissipated, and consciousness returned, and his head came up to see movement and the slow, slow blink of awareness. His heart rate quickened, but he didn’t react.

He’d been practicing at not reacting for hours. He had a lot of time to ponder things. To assess everything. He had already decided to hear Sherlock’s story--all of it, no matter how difficult it may be to hear. He had no energy left for anything else, so listening was the only action he was currently capable of.

More blinking followed, and then he saw Sherlock’s throat working, a grimace crossing his face. Some movement and a sharp intake of pained breath, and that fully removed him from his lazy slumber as focus returned to his eyes. Of course he noticed Lestrade’s presence right away, his head barely turning but his mouth relaxing marginally.

“Hello, Greg,” he breathed, and Lestrade’s stomach churned.

“Sherlock.”

The younger man shut his eyes, his sharp ears picking up the inflection in Lestrade’s voice right away.  

“Never got to have that talk.” he slurred, his gravelly voice parched and bland.

“Nope.” His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms painfully. He saw Sherlock sigh, his hand coming up to rest on his lower chest, blindly assessing the damage. Slowly, Sherlock moved his head, turning it to rest on its side, his drugged eyes snapping to Lestrade’s.

He took a deep, pain-filled breath, eyes snapping shut briefly. Lestrade stayed silent even as his eyes took in every grimace and twinge. He must be in agony he thought, the drugs gradually wearing off.

Sherlock took a few more steadying breaths, blowing each one out methodically, testing out his limits. His forehead beamed with sweat from the minute exertion and for a moment Lestrade wondered if he should leave to let Sherlock rest properly. Because he knew if he stayed, Sherlock would talk. And he’d know everything. So he stayed, selfishly, and ignored the twinge of guilt, because it was tinier that he imagined it would be. Anger brimmed, betrayal taking place of whatever sympathy he might have had.

“I’m assuming by now you’ve heard...things.”

Lestrade stared at Sherlock without revealing anything. If he opened his mouth now… He nodded instead.

“There’s an explanation for everything.”

Lestrade slowly leaned back in his chair, his body protesting the sudden change in position. He crossed his arms, silently allowing Sherlock to proceed.

Sherlock began to speak. And speak. By the end of it, Lestrade wasn’t even looking at him anymore. He stared off into the darkness, idly watching the glittering lights all across London through the large window. A window that could not be opened from the inside. Mycroft had seen to that.

When Sherlock finished, clearly in discomfort, Lestrade pursed his lips and leaned forward towards the floor. He picked up something he had dropped earlier, his eyes flitting to it every so often. He lifted it up for Sherlock to see and watched the younger man’s expression close off, his colour draining.

Turned away from him, The Daily Mirror and its raging headline, _Exclusive- Sherlocks Holmes Kiss and Tell!_ and the sub-headline, _7 Times A Night In Baker Street!_ He held it up for a good ten seconds--even though he knew Sherlock got it from the first two-- before folding it and setting it down in his lap.

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes cool and irritated. “It’s a lie, Greg. Ask Janine herself. I never touched her.”

At her name, Lestrade snapped. He flew to his feet, throwing the paper towards Sherlock and storming from the room. He got as far as the hall where he backed up into a wall and took some steadying breaths, his eyes misting over angrily. He clenched and unclenched his fists and when he was calm enough, he walked back inside, closing the door behind him. He looked at Sherlock, his eyes open for younger detective to dismantle.

“I swear I didn’t do anything with her.”

Lestrade closed his eyes. “John told me he saw her coming out of your bedroom, in nothing but knickers and your own dress shirt.” It was the most he’d spoken in hours and he was pleased his voice remained steady throughout.

Sherlock sneered, his eyes flashing in annoyance. “Yes, she slept in my bedroom, twice. No, I did not join her as I was on the job and no, I would never have done so even if it benefitted my goal. I merely needed to get to Magnussen and she was the key.”

Lestrade gawked, disbelief coursing through his veins. “Do you even hear yourself, Sherlock? You used this girl-- you proposed to her! You made her believe that you loved her for a simple job? You expect me to believe that? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, this is a new low, even for you. I...don’t even know what to say.” He shook his head, arms out in question.

Sherlock reached around and triggered the bed to rise, effectively lifting him to a seated position, more or less. The pain was surely horrid and yet Sherlock took no notice as he gazed at Lestrade with dull, hollow eyes.

“I asked you to trust me, and you said you did.” There was a hint of accusation that curled Lestrade’s lip grimly.

“You bastard. Do you really think that anything you did excuses you from guilt simply because I foolishly expressed my trust in you? I can’t believe how stupid I was. How stupid you thought I was,” he spat bitterly.

“No.” Sherlock closed his eyes, his hand pressing on his wound as he breathed in and out.

“I’m perfectly aware that there is nothing I can say that can justify what I’ve done. As I’m sure my noble brother has already spoken of Lady Smallwood and her problem with Magnusen. She came to me the night before John’s wedding. I agreed then to take on the job. This was...before you....” he looked away with a crease in his brow. “I didn’t know Janine had a connection to Magnussen until she told me where she worked the night of John’s wedding. I needed her to get to him.”

“Why?” growled Lestrade. “Why him? What is so important about Charles Magnussen that it required this enormous ruse, and a bullet through your chest?” He stepped closer to the bed, saw as Sherlock imperceptibly leaned back further against the pillows. Good, thought Greg. Let him retreat.

“And why--” he sweeped in, snatching Sherlock’s arm up--”did that involve polluting yourself? To what end?” he clenched tight to Sherlock’s wrist, his voice low and dark. Sherlock calmly blinked at him.

“He had to believe it was true. That I needed this.”

Lestrade released his arm in disgust. “Magnussen again? What the hell is going on here?” He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“This is nothing,” Sherlock stated offhandedly. “This was the easiest of ruses. But he needed to believe. This isn’t like before, Greg. I knew what would be required of me. It’s already out of my system and I’m fine.”

Lestrade groaned, face buried in his hand. He threw himself back in his chair, body drooping in exhaustion. “I fucking told you I loved you and in the span of a month you eradicated everything. And the worst part is, you knew exactly what you were doing. Fucking hell. Lesson learned.” He rubbed at his face, grimacing at the bad taste his words left in his mouth. He stood.

“Greg.”

“Who shot you?” He didn’t dare let Sherlock finish his line of thought. “And don’t give me bullshit, Sherlock, cause I’m not an idiot. Not about this. I know you saw who fired that gun. Why’d you lie to John?”

Sherlock tensed and looked down at his lap. “John knows as much as I do.”

“What the hell kind of answer is that, Holmes? John thinks you’re protecting someone. Is that true? Someone nearly killed you, Sherlock. In fact, you fucking flatlined on the operating table. You died, Sherlock. And only by some miracle are you sitting here now. So please spare me your evasive bullshit and fucking tell me who fired that gun.” He was seething, his heart filled with blackness and despair. The entire situation was so horrifying he couldn’t come to terms with it.

Sherlock blinked at him, clearly debating what to tell him. What lie to weave. Lestrade glared at the injured man, daring him to lie.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Lestrade’s jaw dropped. So instead of lying to him, he was merely dismissing him entirely. The frightening part was that it was so unlike Sherlock to refrain from spilling every detail he knew, that he didn’t know how to handle this.

“I’m going home.” He couldn’t take another minute of this conversation.

“Greg--”

“No. I’m going. Home. I’m fucking exhausted. I haven’t slept properly since I found out someone tried to kill you, and you, you won’t even tell me who that person was. Let’s for one moment reverse positions. If you could even find enough emotion in that shell of yours to give two shits about me, and found out somebody had put a bullet through me, what would your course of action be?” And for the briefest of seconds, Sherlock looked profoundly pained, eyes glancing down to his lap, mouth pursed with tension. And Lestrade’s breath faltered as his heart gradually unclenched.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

***

_Sherlock told me you know who the shooter was? Why the fuck is no one talking to me?! This was a crime and if you are withholding information then I don’t even know what to say right now…_

_I’m sorry, Greg. My entire world has been destroyed. Do what you must, but I can’t talk about anything right now._

Lestrade stared down at his phone. At the madness he was reading. Sherlock infected John with it and now it was spreading. He thought surely John would give him some answers, seeing as his best friend nearly lost his life. Nothing was making sense and his head was screaming in pain.

He was at work and his productivity level was nonexistent. He couldn’t concentrate on anything of importance and he wasn’t getting any answers. He was supposed to go check out a body at the morgue and attend a meeting in two hours and do paperwork, but he hadn’t left his office since he got there two hours prior.

He sipped on his dull coffee and went through a few emails, but he never responded to John. He didn’t even know what to say. Something wasn’t adding up, and he needed to act rational about it before flinging John into an interrogation room. He sighed, rubbing at the stubble on his chin, idly wondering what day of the week it was. He decided hiding out in his office would accomplish nothing, so he went out to face the day.

***

He was two steps inside the hospital before he got a text.

      _Sherlock was moved. Fourth floor, room 410. MH_

He pursed his lips and went towards the lift. Of course Sherlock would have his own large private suite while he recovered. God forbid he be forced to reside with commoners.

He arrived at room 410 just as a harried-looking nurse was storming out, eyes brimming brightly. She didn’t even notice him as she nearly slammed into him on her brisk walk out. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

Sherlock actually looked momentarily surprised to see him, a sight Lestrade never tired of. He took a quick sweep of the room, noted the spoon covered in...something, on the floor, and the dinner tray rolled away towards the middle of the spacious room. And Sherlock’s petulant expression. He sighed and removed his jacket.

“Sherlock. Harassing the nurses are we now?”

The younger man sneered. “You should see the poison they’ve tried to inject into my system. I’d get better meals at the homeless shelter around the corner.”

Lestrade briefly glanced at the food on the cart and while it didn’t look like the most appetizing cuisine imaginable, it also didn’t look like poison. His lips thinned into a straight line as he crossed the room and deposited a white crinkled bag on Sherlock’s bed. His eyes widened marginally as he clearly guessed at the contents.

“Yep, scones. I went across town for you, though god knows why.” He sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, not bothering with the nearby chair. The gesture was another shock to Sherlock’s system, because he stilled his hands and licked his lips. He looked up, eyes open and calm.

“Thank you.”

Lestrade nodded and lifted his chin towards the bag. Sherlock dug in, eyes glowing with delight as the large scone(raspberry) was revealed. Sherlock didn’t waste time digging in, devouring the entire scone in under a minute. Lestrade’s brow rose. “There’s another in there.” Sherlock proceeded to finish that one off as well.

“I never understood why you’d go all that way and only buy two.” Sherlock licked his fingers, a crease between his brow.

“I got one for myself, which I already ate. Plus, you know they don’t keep well after the first day. Never as good.”

Sherlock looked at him with a hint of amusement, and something else. Lestrade didn’t dare label it as tenderness, but appreciation was probably more on target anyway. He swallowed and looked away, unable to meet the openness in those blue eyes. It hurt.

“Thank you,” Sherlock repeated softly.

“I’m still furious,” he stated, eyes on the opposite wall. Sherlock didn’t move a muscle.

“I know.”

He swallowed thickly, his throat protesting the motion. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“Sore,” came the immediate response and his eyes moved back to Sherlock’s with worry. Because an honest answer was always troubling, and Sherlock was the last person to complain about something as trivial as pain.

“I know. I’m sorry. I heard they’ve reduced the morphine levels. I could speak with Mycroft and-”

“No. I told you, I don’t need--”

“I know you don’t. But if you are in serious pain, maybe the doctor can amend something, or give you something else. You don’t need to prove anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock said nothing for a while, his face closed off and Lestrade hated the silence more than anything. Without thought he reached forward and swiped his fingers through Sherlock’s damp curls. Sherlock’s eyes darted to his at once, but he didn’t return the gaze, just grazed along the warm scalp repeatedly, secretly loving the fluttering of Sherlock’s eyes in his periphery.

He had already confessed to Sherlock what he felt, and he suddenly didn't care how he might perceive this action. But Sherlock said nothing, just closed his eyes and relaxed his breathing. After a moment of silence, Lestrade glanced over to find the young detective fast asleep, face smooth in repose. He continued the ministrations for a short while, partly for selfish reasons. He knew if Sherlock weren’t confined to a bed he’d never allow this.

His vision grew hazy as he finally relaxed his hand, dropping it to his lap. He carefully stood up, picked up the discarded bakery bag, wiped his eyes, and left.

***

There were some simple facts of life that were just too difficult to ignore. Sherlock was always going to hurt him, whether or not he means to. Sherlock came back from the dead twice now, and that changed your perspective more than slightly. Things became...more manageable to deal with, because life was precarious and never certain. And the last, most important fact: Lestrade would always love him, despite...everything.

 

tbc...

 

 


	15. Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and for your patience!   
> SPOILERS for His Last Vow  
> Adult content in this chapter

Sherlock was restless. Lestrade could see it with every frown marring his brow and every clasp of his fingers, tightening across knuckles, or clenched around a mug, lips hovering over the rim, and forgetting to take a sip. He saw it with every blank look out the window, eyes unseeing, or seeing too much, lost in his mind for hours. Inquiries were met with half-hearted rebuffs, insults dying on lips, body shuddering from a deep sigh.

Lestrade let it go. He let it all go, because no good would come of anything else. Sherlock healed, his wound closing over, leaving nothing but a soft dimple, flesh slightly puckered and off-colour. Sherlock liked to examine it, fingers pressing, probing, breath hissing at his limitations. Lestrade would grit his teeth and shake his head as Sherlock’s lip quirked with mischief. Those were the good days.

John was ignoring him. Calls, texts, visits. When pressed, Sherlock would tell him it was nothing. Nothing to worry about. Nothing significant. John was fine. Or would be. Lestrade wasn’t an idiot, and mentioned this to Sherlock before walking out of Baker Street, fists clenched.

Sherlock had called him, voice low and weary. Sherlock never called him. It was hardly an apology and more of a half-hearted attempt to alleviate his worries. It didn’t work, but he appreciated Sherlock’s intent.

He watched Sherlock closely. As the summer dragged and the weather and humidity rose, he’d walk into Baker Street and find Sherlock outstretched on the sofa, reading in nothing by loose trousers and a tee, feet bare and pale. His eyes would flicker over to those wiry arms of his, taking note of anything...off. So far, Sherlock had been true to his word. No signs or symptoms of anything. It was a small blessing.

Sherlock didn’t speak of anything relating to what had happened. Aside from toying with his new scar, he didn’t utter a word about his case with Magnussen, nor of the person who shot him. It was infuriating. More so because Lestrade knew the man was hiding something. And he’d known Sherlock long enough to realize when he was being lied to, or at least diverted.

Lestrade wasn’t exactly subtle in his need to know, but Sherlock wouldn’t budge. Much later on, as the days passed and he’d had time to process everything, he came to the inevitable conclusion. It was so simple, he wondered why it didn’t occur to him straight off.

Sherlock was protecting someone.

***

He set down the takeaway, immediately tearing his suit jacket off in the stifling heat of the flat.

“Christ, Sherlock, you have air conditioners,” he grumbled as he removed the cartons from the greasy bags. Sherlock padded into the kitchen from his room, feet bare and tacky against the wood. His hair was a mess, badly in need of a trim, and his eyes were hooded and dull.

“Did you just wake up? It’s nearly six. When are you planning to sleep tonight?”

“I sleep when I need to. I don’t _have_ to sleep at night,” Sherlock responded, matter of factly. Lestrade sighed but didn’t dignify that with a rebuttal. They sat at the small table that doubled as a lab station and dove into their Thai.

After his second helping of pad thai, Lestrade leaned back in the creaky chair and regarded Sherlock, wolfishly scarfing his glass noodles. He dropped his hands to his lap, fingers pinching at his damp palm methodically. He took a measured breath.

“I know the person who shot you is someone you know. And I can safely say that there aren’t too many people you’d choose to protect if the situation called for it.”

Sherlock grew still, eyes down to his plate. Lestrade continued.

“You can either tell me or I can guess, and I know you think me a rubbish detective but I can tell you it wouldn’t be so hard once I actually take a moment to think about it--or look into people’s whereabouts that night.”

Sherlock’s hand gripped his chopsticks, knuckles as white as his face.

“Sherlock.”

“Stop this.” It was a warning, and a plea. Lestrade’s heart grew heavy as his suspicions were painfully confirmed. He swallowed thickly, insides turning to ice.

“Who was it?”

Sherlock dropped the sticks, leaning back rigidly in his chair. His face was stone, eyes impenetrable and dark. Lestrade sensed what was about to happen, as the formula was the same for years. He refused to rise to the bait this time.

“You asked me to trust you, Sherlock. Look around. I’m still here. I’m sitting right in front of you, _trusting_ you. Because I know deep down you’re a good person, and no matter what you do, my opinion won’t change. So I’m asking you. I’m asking you to trust _me_. Forget that I’m a detective for a minute. Forget all of that because right now I’m asking you to put your trust in me, as someone who cares for you.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched. “Don’t ask this of me, Greg.”

Lestrade stared, disappointment brimming underneath. He glanced away, gathering his thoughts.

“This isn’t a matter of trust,” Sherlock told him. “It never has been. You have to... know that,” he said, not quite a question. Still, Lestrade felt himself nodding, slowly. “I know that, Sher. But someone tried to kill you and--”

“No. If they wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead.”

Lestrade gaped. “You did die. Your heart stopped and you died.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic. My heart may have given out, momentarily, but I assure you, my mind was fully functional and capable of doing what it needed to do. As I said, I’m still here.” He leaned forward, picking up his forgotten chopsticks. He pushed them inside his noodles. Lestrade’s stomach soured.

He moved his plate away and went to stand. Sherlock sighed, irate. “Stay?”

Lestrade stilled, looking down at the younger man, so casual in his languid appearance. “I don’t know. I have to be at work at five.” Sherlock nodded without looking up, bringing the chopsticks to his mouth.

Lestrade’s heart clenched. In truth, he hadn’t spent a night with Sherlock since John’s wedding night. He stopped by, and chatted, and dined with the younger man, but he never stayed over. He wasn’t quite over the Janine debacle. He didn’t bring it up and neither did Sherlock, but this was the first time Sherlock had actually asked him to stay the night.

He swallowed, walked around the table, and brought his arms up, smoothing his hands over Sherlock’s head, fingers threading through dark locks. Sherlock didn’t move or say a word, but Lestrade saw as his eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. He would have smiled if he wasn’t so morose.

After a minute he eased back and dropped his hands to his sides. “Night, Sherlock” he whispered. He grabbed his jacket and departed, not bothering to wait for a response.

***

There were cases, and depending on his mood, Sherlock would accompany him, his arrogance shining through, more often than not. He rebuffed anyone who got near him, tearing them down to size with that acerbic tongue of his, eyes chilly and aloof. It grated on Lestrade’s nerves, more so because of the headaches he received afterwards from Donovan and the rest of his team.

No matter his personal issues, Sherlock proved invaluable and on top of his game. He clearly was capable of turning off whatever was stressing him out and properly concentrate on the job. It was both admirable and crazy how his mind worked, something he shared with Sherlock one balmy August evening.

“You really are able to compartmentalize, aren’t you?” They walked side by side along the pavement, sky darkening above them.

“Of course. Can’t you?”

Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance, wondering if he was mocking him or not. “Depends, I guess.  I usually like to focus on one thing at a time, or I’ll go mental.” Their heels clacked along the pavement and the soft breeze stirred their clothes as they leisurely strolled, looking for a place to eat. They’d just left the Yard, latest suspect arrested and placed behind bars.

Sherlock’s mercurial disposition left something to be desired, chafing the nerves of everyone in his vicinity. Lestrade had practically dragged him out of the Met, though his attitude had not improved much in the fresh air.

“How about Nobu? I feel like celebrating,” he declared after they’ve passed a dozen or so places. Sherlock’s stride didn’t change as he cast a glance over.

“Seems a bit ostentatious for you.”

“What? I’m not allowed to have a nice, expensive and relaxing dinner out for once? Just once would be nice, you know,” he said, his skin prickling with restlessness. He didn’t catch Sherlock’s expression as he was suddenly yanked off to the side.

Sherlock’s grip on his arm was lead as he guided him to the alleyway, pinning him against the wall. Lestrade’s brows drew down as he silently questioned Sherlock’s next move.

The young detective was less than a foot away from his face as he looked at Lestrade, eyes searching, bright in the darkness of the alleyway. His lips parted slightly, throat working past whatever it is he wanted to say. His heart rate spiked at the closeness; the scent of him was intoxicating and so familiar. He ached to reach out.

“I’m sorry,” breathed Sherlock, fingers curling into Lestrade’s arm. The older man stared, mouth gone dry. He watched Sherlock’s jaw work and tighten, skin pale and dewy. Eyes still glued to his.

“For what.” He didn’t dare breathe.

“ _Everything_ ,” sighed Sherlock, and he leaned forward, forehead lowered, warm skin flush against Lestrade’s. They stayed like that, frozen in time, until Lestrade could manage to move. He reached up, unglued Sherlock’s forehead from his, brought his face close as his hands shook. Sherlock’s eyes were startled, unhinged, and Lestrade couldn’t bear it. He swiped his thumb across Sherlock’s lips before leaning in.

He pressed his lips against the warm mouth, felt the quivering breath leave Sherlock before lips locked with his own. Sherlock released his hold on Lestrade’s arm and settled his hands on his hips, fingers curling around the inspector’s belt, effectively pulling him towards him. He grew dizzy from the kiss, so unexpected and so piercing.

He relinquished his hold as his lips broke away, damp and infected with _Sherlock_. Their breaths mixed as they held each other upright. Lestrade wanted to run his tongue along the insides of his mouth, lap up every droplet of Sherlock’s essence, devour him, consume him and then do it all over again. Sherlock watched him, mouth parted, pupils impossibly large.

“Maybe...I’m not so hungry after all,” he whispered, eyes roaming carefully over Sherlock’s face.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Sherlock agreed, hands suddenly pressing against Lestrade’s trousers, index finger slowly grazing the lengthening hardness that was impossible to contain or hide. Lestrade hissed, breath catching. His hand rested firmly on Sherlock’s left shoulder and he watched with lowered lids as Sherlock methodically teased him. When he felt a firm, hot hand grab and squeeze him he nearly collapsed against Sherlock, eyes slamming shut.

“Oh god. Not here, Sherlock. Not here.”

“Why not?” came the impish reply.

Because they were in a fucking alleyway, ten feet from the main street and both their faces were well known. But in truth, those were the least irritating thoughts running through his mind. He wanted to get Sherlock underneath him, preferably in a bed, but the couch/floor/table were acceptable alternatives.

Part of him wanted to forget it all, let Sherlock do whatever the hell he wanted to do to him. Another part was surprised Sherlock would even entertain the notion of getting Lestrade off in the middle of London with passers-by strolling mere feet away. It sent a thrilling spike of desire through him as Sherlock continued to tease him through his clothing.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Sherlock eased off him and grabbed hold of his hand. He marched them back out to the street, only letting go to hail an approaching cab. Lestrade thanked God it was nearly dark as he eased into the cab with a minor grimace at his uncomfortable state down below.

“Baker Street,” Sherlock barked, and took out his mobile, essentially ignoring Lestrade the entire drive. By the time they reached the flat, Lestrade’s erection had evaporated but not his state of arousal. He practically threw the money at the cabbie as he jumped out to the kerb, impatiently waiting for Sherlock to unlock the door, even though he too had a key.

They barely made it inside before Lestrade pounced, flattening Sherlock against the gaudy wallpapered hallway. He prayed Mrs. Hudson was currently occupied as he assaulted the pliant mouth underneath him, thrusting his leg in between Sherlock’s, thigh pressing up against Sherlock’s growing erection.

Sherlock broke away, head slamming back against the wall. It was practically an invitation for Lestrade to assault his neck, which he did, lapping and nipping, hands roaming everywhere.

“Only you,” he growled, mind obliterated. “Only you would _dare_ to be so presumptuous. After _everything,”_ he ground his hip against Sherlock, not caring in the least how uncomfortable the position must be for the younger man. He was long past coherent thought.

“You should be on your fucking knees, begging me for this. You should be on your knees every fucking day, thanking me for even looking in your direction after everything--” he jerked Sherlock forward, pulling on his lapels. His head lolled back from the sudden movement even as his chest slammed against Lestrade’s. He let him go just as sudden, fingers raw from grasping so hard.

He breathed out, ragged and on fire. Sherlock looked no better, debauched and flushed to the roots of his hair. He ran a shaky hand through his own damp locks, his mind in chaos. It was always going to be this way, he realized. He harboured no illusions, not with Sherlock. It was impossible. There was too much passion and bottled rage for it to go any other way. It would never change, no matter how much they change themselves.

But the thought of living without Sherlock was unacceptable. He had wormed his screwed-up self into Lestrade’s brain over the years and refused to leave. What’s worse is he also wormed his way into his heart.

He closed his eyes briefly and wondered how his life had become so fucked up. He should never have taken him home with him. All those years ago. He should have left him there in the hospital. Or sent him off with Mycroft. This was his own fault. His insides rebelled at the wrongness of it all, the constant conflict. He’d never win, so why not stop fighting it? If this was all he could get…

His eyes opened to Sherlock staring at him, a million unspoken words floating around somewhere there behind the fathomless blues, a thousand disputes in dozens of languages. He’d never fully understand him. He’d never been allowed to because Sherlock never let anyone in.

And that was the crux of it. For a man who alleged that his body was mainly transport he surely exhibited all the signs, countering his ridiculous claim . Why did he allow this? Why Lestrade? There had to be something. Some connection or Sherlock would never have gone this far. He’d never get a real answer if he asked. Because behind those eyes that knew all truths, those same eyes lied and lied.

Though not now. Sherlock’s gaze was open and lustful, and slightly hesitant. He swallowed but didn’t move, and that’s when Sherlock went down on his knees. Heart skipping a beat, Lestrade waited, with bated breath.

Sherlock hung his head, breath flowing uneasily from his lips. Lestrade didn’t budge, too shocked at the sight, at the _wrongness_ of it. An acrid taste filled his mouth, and whatever erection he’d had wilted to nothing.

“What are you doing?” he finally managed, voice hardly a whisper, fists clenched.

“What you wanted,” came the stoic reply, dead and submissive. Lestrade felt ill and dizzy. He stared down at the impossible sight and felt sick, tormented and ashamed. This was what he wanted. Retribution. Sherlock on his knees, silently asking forgiveness for the unforgivable sins he’d committed from the one man who would be stupid enough to forgive him.

His heart shattered, the pain prickling, taking over, enveloping him until he couldn’t take it any more. He grabbed onto Sherlock’s shoulders and yanked him up, not even knowing where he got the strength to do so.

“You bloody fool.” He wrapped his arms around the slighter figure, fingers curling against fabric, digging into Sherlock’s back. “Don’t you know me by now?” he growled softly. “Do you honestly think I’d still be here if I didn’t love you? Stop this nonsense and quit it with the fucking apologies, or you’re gonna give me a bloody aneurism.” He leaned back to find confounded, bright eyes gaping back at him.

“Now please tell me you have some sort of alcohol upstairs.”

Sherlock slowly nodded, straightening up, smoothing his hands over his rumpled clothing. Lestrade took a step back, inclining his head towards the stairwell. “Well, lead on then.” Sherlock, looking remarkably put together, did just that.

***

The room was damp and humid when he awoke, mouth parched and tasting of ashtray and of Sherlock’s distinct flavour. He leaned up on his elbows, briefly glanced at the clock and flopped back down. A dull throb was starting to grow near the back of his head so he carefully maneuvered away from the tangle of blankets and limbs, padding over to his discarded jacket to retrieve some pills. Swallowing them dry he glanced over at the bed and at Sherlock, obliviously sleeping away.

He looked down at his rumpled clothing distastefully so he found one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, throwing it on before lazily strolling outside for some coffee. He had the day off for once, and wasn’t going to rush things, not this morning.

Sun blazed through the open drapes as he waited for the coffee maker to finish up. He ran fingers through his short, but lopsided hair and desperately wished for a shower. In the meantime, he really just wanted to enjoy a warm cup of caffeine. The wood was cool and comfortable beneath his bare feet as he poked around the kitchen to see if there was anything edible for breakfast.

Finding nothing but stale biscuits in the cupboard, he frowned in disappointment and went about pouring his coffee. There was a sudden bang and he frowned before realizing it had come from downstairs. And not from Mrs. Hudson’s door either. He had zero time to do anything but stand there stupidly with a hot mug in his hands before John came dashing through the door.

Both parties froze. Lestrade, because it was all he could do without spilling boiling coffee on his hand, and John because he was clearly not expecting to find the DI in Sherlock’s kitchen at eight in the morning. Not to mention, he was wearing Sherlock’s navy dressing gown, a fact that did not go unnoticed as John’s gaze roamed across the article of clothing, before rapid blinking  commenced.

“Um, hey, John. Good morning.” He brought the mug to his lips, effectively scalding the sensitive tissue, as well as the tip of his tongue.

“What...are you doing here, Greg?” More blinking, more judging. Lestrade swallowed the small sip he took and shrugged. “Having coffee.”

The silence was total and humiliatingly uncomfortable. John slowly moved his hand from the door knob, pursed his lips, and softly clicked the door close. His fingers wriggled and stretched, a habitual tick of John’s, when he was overly nervous or anxious about something. Lestrade took another careful sip. He hardly tasted the coffee.

“Oh thank _god_. I hope you made the decent stuff, Lestrade. Not the swill Mrs. Hudson purchased for me last week.”

Lestrade’s--and John’s-- head whipped as Sherlock breezed through the room, heading straight for the coffee, tan dress robe swirling around his bare feet. Lestrade’s stomach plummeted as he took in the disarray of his hair, and the fresh, incriminating marks on his neck and clavicle. He swiftly turned away, placing his mug on the countertop.

“Well, I’m off to shower.” He marched across the room, eyes fixed on the bathroom door at all times, and enclosed himself as soon as he got inside. He immediately turned on the taps because he really did not want to hear anything that was being said at the moment.

His heart beat madly in his chest as he lathered and shampooed, inwardly cursing his own stupidity. He mentally cringed as he tried to envision the conversation with John.

_“Oh, you didn’t know Sherlock and I’ve been fucking for years? Well, now you do!”_

He groaned, pressing his head to the tile. He allowed a few extra minutes, just in case the explosion outside wasn’t over with, and then he turned off the water and pulled back the curtain.

Sherlock was in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame. His face was mostly unreadable, save for the smallest of crinkles around his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Lestrade blurted, angrily grabbing for the towel Sherlock was offering him.

“What for?” sighed Sherlock.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, too wired and jittery to towel off. Plus the cool air felt nice on his damp skin.

“That was careless of me. I didn’t expect that--” he closed his eyes and shook his head, barely stifling a helpless groan. Sherlock took a few steps forward. He shrugged. “It’s only John,” he said, as if it meant nothing.

“Yeah. Only John. John your best friend who clearly just found out about us.” He sighed, his body coiled with annoyance and frustration.

“I didn’t mean for him to find out this way, Sherlock. I’m sorry if it changes anything, between you two.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why should it? I don’t care that he knows, if that’s what you're all worried about.”

“And you’re not?” he countered.

“Why should I be? I do as I please. John knows this.” Sherlock swallowed, sensing his unease. “John doesn’t care. He was more surprised than anything. It’s fine. He’s fine. It doesn’t matter. To him, or myself.”

Lestrade looked him over, and found him truthful. There was a perplexed air about Sherlock, as if he wasn’t sure why this was upsetting Lestrade so. His unease lessened and he stepped out of the tub, nodding once to Sherlock in assent. Sherlock quirked his lip and left him to dry off.

***

Mrs. Hudson popped in an hour later, fresh muffins and scones in hand. Fully dressed in his own trousers and one of Sherlock’s tees, he heartily thanked her and scarfed right in. She busied herself in Sherlock’s kitchen, making tea, wiping down the counters, humming to herself.

“Going to the shops for cigarettes,” Sherlock announced, stuffing his wallet into his pocket. He didn’t bother to ask if Lestrade needed or wanted anything before he bounced out the door. Lestrade shook his head, flipping the newspaper over and wiping muffin crumbs off his shirt.

“He’s in a good mood today,” Mrs. Hudson chirped with a smile. She continued her humming as she took stock of Sherlock’s fridge.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “I guess he is, for Sherlock anyway.”

“About time too. I really was in a state with the whole Mary business.”

Lestrade stilled, eyes stuck to the paper. He swallowed. “What Mary business?”

She sighed and turned around, rag in hand. “Surely he’s told you by now? It was quite the scene here, let me tell you! Sherlock, as pale as a corpse...the night he escaped from hospital.” She tutted, shaking her head. “Came back here with John and Mary, asking me for morphine, of all things. And poor John was so angry, and not with Sherlock for once! Yelling and snarling, and Mary just standing there pale and anxious. I’ve never seen John like that.”

Lestrade dropped the paper and turned round in his chair, his heart thumping madly. “John was angry with Mary? What did he say she did?”

Mrs. Hudson bit her lip, a deep frown marring her brow. “She wasn’t who he thought she was. Something about her past. Something she never told John about.”

Lestrade’s mouth parted as her words struck his brain. “Oh my god.” His eyes flashed over to her. “Did Sherlock name her as the shooter?” He was standing now, and Mrs. Hudson looked pale and concerned.

“I... he’s never said. I don’t know what else they talked about after I left. Didn’t want to be in the middle of that domestic, let me tell you.”

He stared, mouth working. His expression softened as he took in hers. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Would you please tell Sherlock I had to take off? I left some of my work back at my flat.” He was already moving towards the door, grabbing his jacket and keys.

“Course, dear. Muffin to go?”

“No thanks!”

He grabbed a cab, nausea building, rolling around in his stomach with every turn and bump. He wiped at his brow, and chewed on his thumbnail as London whisked by his window. He saw none of it. A deep, lurking pain was gnawing its way through his core, settling in his chest. He shut his eyes, pressing his palm against his sternum, so certain he was having a heart attack.

After he got inside his flat, he sat down heavily on his sofa, the silence only magnifying the racing of his pulse. He looked down. He was still wearing Sherlock’s t-shirt, the cloth pulling at his chest slightly. He fingered the worn edge of the pale shirt--one of Sherlock’s favourites, given the amount of times Lestrade had come over to see it on him, dressing gown usually falling from his shoulders.

A wet plop landed on his hand. He looked down again but found his vision blurred. Frowning, he reached up and wiped at his eyes, his hand glistening with moisture. He sniffed, his head noisy and throbbing.

He felt physically and mentally exhausted, his world thrown off balance. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to handle this news. Could it really be true? Is that why Sherlock refused to talk about it? Because of what it could mean for everyone involved.

Mary shot Sherlock.

His fingers curled and his eyes filled again as the onslaught of disbelief and rage coursed through him. Mary shock Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. She shot him and Sherlock knew it and John knew it and-- he was going to be sick.

He got off the sofa and went to get a glass of cold water, drinking it all in one go. He stared down at the empty glass and had the overwhelming desire to hurl it. To watch it shatter into a million pieces. Similar to what his heart was doing right now.

Instead he carefully placed it back down and sat at the kitchen table. He folded his hands together in prayer and sat for a while, thinking everything though. Every detail he could recall, every instance of doubt regarding Mary. He remembered nothing. Nothing but pure joy and happiness when he witnessed her and John together.

Oh god… He knew, but apparently not until much later. Not until Sherlock disappeared from hospital and...and then they all went to Baker Street and that’s how Mrs. Hudson found out. He brought his entwined hands to his face, pressing his knuckles against his forehead.

Who the fuck was this Mary Morstan? She shot Sherlock cleanly, with intent. To harm, not to kill. Sherlock had mumbled something about that before. That the shooter wasn’t actually trying to kill him. He closed his eyes. It was all bullshit. Sherlock had nearly died at the hospital. Scratch that. Sherlock’s heart stopped and he died. For a few torturous seconds, Sherlock lay dead, and Mary Morstan had killed him.

That explained John’s text to him afterwards. John had been destroyed by the news. His wife was a total stranger to him and nearly got his best friend killed. That also explained why John refused to talk to him now. He didn’t want to answer any questions about that night. He didn’t want to re-live it. To face the truth all over again.

He felt pained for John. He couldn’t even imagine what the man must be going through. His own wife… But every time Lestrade remembered Sherlock’s face, pale and feverish from blood loss, the rage surfaced anew and all he could do is wish pain and death on the one who did this.

He was also angry with Sherlock for keeping this from him. He knew why he did it, of course. Knowing what he knows now. He _was_ trying to protect someone, but it certainly wasn’t Mary. It was John. If the police and everybody found out what Mary did, John’s life would be forever altered. His reputation, over. Befriending Sherlock after his fake suicide debacle would be nothing compared to this.

He sighed, his head practically on fire. He glanced over to his liquor cabinet, but didn’t make a move. As much as he would love to lose himself in the always-faithful bottom of a glass, he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Nothing could right this.

***

     _You stopping by later? If yes, fish and chips would do nicely. SH_

_I’m not sure yet. Busy with work._

He could have barged into Baker Street, accusations flying, threatening all manner of things. Demanded Sherlock to tell him everything. It may have even worked. But for once this wasn’t Sherlock’s fault and so it didn’t feel right. Nevermind the fact that he was a Detective Inspector with knowledge useful to an unsolved attempted murder. Withholding evidence certainly didn’t sit right with him either. He just needed some time to think, but Sherlock was making it very difficult.

Twenty four hours later and his phone wouldn’t stay silent. It was almost as if Sherlock _knew_ something had happened. Suspected something was not quite right. Of course making idle chit chat wasn’t Sherlock’s method of going about getting information, but it was making Lestrade nervous every time his phone made a sound.

Avoiding Sherlock would be next to impossible, especially if Sherlock wanted the opposite. So far he had invited Lestrade over four times, using four different means of influence. He knew he couldn’t stay away forever, but it hadn’t even been a full day.

He had lain awake nearly the whole night reevaluating everything, disassembling the various pieces of the plot. Mary and Magnussen and Sherlock and even John. Trying to fit all the pieces back together into some semblance of order. He wasn’t having any luck. He needed Sherlock to fill in what he knew and the only way would be to actually talk with the man. But every time he thought about the conversation he went numb with fear.

What if Sherlock refused to talk? It got him thinking. How much does Sherlock value what they have? He kept Mary from him and he can sort of understand why. But now that he knows, would Sherlock open up to him? Forget the fact that he was a DI for the Scotland Yard. Was there trust enough to reveal everything? He honestly wasn’t sure and he was terrified to find out for fear of having his heart ripped out.

_Wouldn’t be the first time_ , his mind countered.

The situation was a precarious one and he wanted to do it right. He needed answers and he couldn’t just barge in and demand them from Sherlock. His only other option was to speak with John, but that was less likely to happen since John was unreachable.

Or so he thought.

He certainly wasn’t expecting the ringing at his door in the morning. Nor John’s voice at the end asking to be let up. With trepidation, he hit the button, and waited.

John seemed collected when he entered the flat. Impeccably dressed, and mild mannered, he greeted Lestrade cordially and thanked him for seeing him. Lestrade indicated to the sofa and they each took a seat. And very quickly he realized exactly the way the visit would go.

“So. You and Sherlock.”

He froze, eyes averted, palms tacky. He cleared his throat. A denial was completely pointless.

“Um yeah,” he breathed, a half-smirk there and gone as quickly. John pursed his lips and nodded once, mouth twisting.

“How long?”

That was a more difficult question to answer. How long since he realized he was in love with a strung out genius, always looking for the next fix, or how long since he pressed his body against Sherlock’s and breathed his name on the other man’s lips?

“A while. Before…” Before Sherlock jumped off a building and pretended to be dead for three years. Another nod followed, eyes stormy and faraway.

Oh god, there were more questions in John’s face, and they could only get more personal and more intimate. And Sherlock probably had no clue John was even here.

“Does Mycroft know?”

He blinked, mouth open. A deep frown settled as he lifted his shoulders. “There’s um, a possibility that he knows. Or he certainly has his suspicions. But he’s never expressly spoken of it. At least not with me.” Not entirely true, but close enough.

John actually looked slightly relieved at that, as if Mycroft was such an obstacle. He had to laugh at that. As if Sherlock would ever allow it to be. Or Lestrade gave a shit as to what Mycroft thought.

“What are you getting out of it?”

“Excuse me?” He clenched his jaw at the indignation. John seemed to realize the folly of his question.

“Sorry. I meant, well...you know how Sherlock is. It’s not like he hasn't expressed his complete distaste for anything remotely involving a relationship, or even anything physical--”

“Time to shut up now, John.”

John stood, frantically driving his hand through his hair, then rubbing his face. “I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business and I don’t even know why I’m here asking you any of this but he’s my friend and in all the years I’ve known him, not once, ever, has he _ever_ remotely entertained the possibility of anything…” his arms spread out, gesticulating, articulating what words could not. He finally shook his head, blinking rapidly in befuddlement, or distress.

“Sherlock means more to me than anybody I’ve ever known,” he answered softly. John stilled, face falling, going blank. He swallowed and looked down at his feet.

“Oh my god,” said John. He looked back up at Lestrade, an almost wistful expression blooming. And then it shattered and he looked positively horrified. “Oh my god, the thing with Janine…”

Lestrade paled, and stood. “There was no _thing_ with Janine,” he seethed, unable to control it, even now. He sneered but it wasn’t directed at John. He knew what John meant. “Sherlock’s already...explained himself.” He clenched his fists, throwing an annoyed glare at John.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I really am. That was...dumb of Sherlock to even go that far. Must’ve been some punch in the gut.” And suddenly Lestrade wasn’t sure exactly who John meant as he watched him close off, eyes going dark. This was the perfect opportunity to bring up Mary. Bring up everything. But as he gazed at John he realized he couldn’t do it. Not now, not here anyway.He sighed.

“Sherlock can be obtuse, we all know this. No big secret. And yes, it hurt like hell. Still does, If I’m being honest. It’s actually nice to talk about it with someone else. Someone who knows Sherlock well enough not to hold it against him forever.”

John huffed a mirthless laugh. “Oh yes. I suppose that’s true. Sherlock does what Sherlock wants. No changing a guy like that. But Greg,” he said in all seriousness, “don’t let him do that to you again.”

Lestrade swallowed thickly. “Yeah.”

John nodded. “Well, I need to get over to the clinic. See you later, Greg.”

“Bye, John.”

After he left Lestrade sank back down, suddenly realizing he was still wearing Sherlock’s shirt. His first impulse was to go and change, but his hands moved over the soft fabric and he imagined Sherlock wearing it, lounging in it, sleeping in it. He kept it on. Just for a little while.

 ***

He arrived unannounced the next night, fish and chips in hand--or in bag. Sherlock took one look and rolled his eyes.

“Can’t have that. I’m on a case.”

Lestrade blinked. “Oh. As of when?”

“This morning.” He was peering into his microscope, brows down in concentration. Lestrade set the bags down on the coffee table, since the kitchen one was covered up with...noxious smelling experiments.

There was no point arguing with Sherlock about food, so he dove into his own, not wanting to spoil a perfectly warm meal.

“What sort of case is it?” he asked between bites. Sherlock didn’t look up as he answered. “Disappearance of an heiress. Her mother reported her missing after a night out with friends. But there was blood on the inside of her window pane.”

“Ah.” He took a few more bites in silence. “So John showed up at my flat yesterday.” He watched as Sherlock’s finger briefly froze in motion on the dial.

“What for?” he replied dryly. Lestrade smirked to himself. Sherlock was nervous. He took another bite.

“Just asking about...the other day.”

Sherlock scrunched his lips. “Oh. Well, it really is none of John’s affair.”

“What’s not?” He wanted to hear Sherlock say it.

“What goes on in my flat.” Lestrade deflated a bit, bitterness on his tongue. He stuffed a handful of chips down his throat to prevent himself from talking.

“Aha!” cried Sherlock with glee. “Perfect. Exactly what I was looking for!” He ran into his bedroom. He emerged less than two minutes later, fully dressed, shoes on, hair slightly mussed.

“Gotta go! Shouldn’t be long. Mrs. Hudson bought the tea you like.” And then he was gone in a flash. Lestrade stared wide-eyed at the empty doorway, swearing under his breath.

***

He ended up watching telly on Sherlock’s sofa, the humidity filling the flat uncomfortably. He was too lazy to turn on the AC, completely content to sit there, sunken into the cushions and watching a repeat of a show he liked. He fell asleep that way, fully seated, head lolling to the side, after Sherlock failed to return after three hours.

A warm pressure on his thighs lifted him from the pleasant haziness of slumber. Although he was already quite warm, the presence was welcome and pleasant. Hands stirred along his scalp, fingers lightly filtering through the short strands there. He sighed, eyes still closed.

The hands moved from his head, landing on his chest, the pressure there steady and contemplative, his heart thumping merrily below the warm palm. The heaviness on his thighs was becoming slightly uncomfortable; too warm and claustrophobic. He cracked open his lids with a lazy smile.

“Sherlock.” God his mouth was parched.

“Quiet,” demanded the voice, obscenely dark with promise. He closed his eyes once more, felt the deep coiling stirring in his belly. His arms lay limp on either side, but he knew if he touched Sherlock now, he’d annihilate him, destroying him bit by bit. And he’d like it, too. So he let Sherlock play, since moments like this were a rarity, improbable and never assured, not with the younger man.

He was completely hard. He stifled the sounds threatening to make their way out, as Sherlock torturously writhed in his lap, two long digits making their way into Lestrade’s parted mouth. He lapped them up from root to fingernail, hollowing his mouth, sucking, fucking them, devouring the flavour unique to the younger man.

He couldn’t resist any longer. He moved his arm, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist and swallowing his fingers whole, two, then three, his tongue covering every inch, teeth raking across knuckles, pricking the delicate pads. He heard the soft gasp, and opened his eyes.

Sherlock nearly undid him. Flushed scarlet, eye colour indistinguishable in his rapture, hair nearly black with its endless array of curls, neck pulsating with desire...oh god. He was clad in a dark navy dress shirt, so soft, buttons straining against his heaving chest, shirtsleeves rolled to his wrists, sinewy and bulging with strain. Fitted trousers, scrunched and tented below his waist.

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock lifted off his lap, onto his knees. Lestrade wasted no time in getting the zip loose, greedy fingers reaching into the heat. His eyes never left Sherlock’s. He curved his fingers around the column of flesh, slick, scorching and twitching, and squeezed, grabbing the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him towards him.

The pained gasp died in his throat as his mouth clashed with Lestrade’s, who was aching below, strained and ignored. Sherlock hissed, the sound reverberating all around him, inside him, turning him to goop. He lavished Sherlock with hungry kisses--his mouth and cheeks and neck, that perfect long neck of his. He wanted him naked, he’d take him clothed. He didn’t care either way, he just wanted wanted wanted.

He could never get enough. Not of this. Not from Sherlock. His damned Achilles heel. Always. He should just accept it and invite whatever Sherlock brings forth. In times like this, when nothing mattered but pleasure--giving it, taking it in-- it was so easy to forget everything. He loved giving himself over to the feeling. It was nice, to be wanted, to be needed. The feeling multiplied when the person was Sherlock. Sherlock, who professed that love was a foolish fancy.

He wanted to prove him wrong so badly. How could he say such a thing, when they were bound like this? Intertwined, an endless array of limbs and sounds, threatening to overwhelm. It was utter nonsense. Surely Sherlock had to see it?

They fucked on the couch, Lestrade’s hands on Sherlock’s hips as the younger man rocked over him, glued to him with perspiration. Both their bodies were slick with sweat and oil, Sherlock’s preferred method of lubrication, he quickly learned.

Afterwards, Sherlock’s forehead rested against Lestrade’s as a sticky mess of semen slowly dried, the smell of damp and sex still mingling in the air around them. He’d never felt more relaxed. Sherlock eased off him with a strained sigh, and the air cooled the wetness all over him. He watched as Sherlock padded, completely nude, to the kitchen to get a damp towel. Even in the dimly lit flat he could make out the faded scars marring Sherlock’s lean body, remnants of a life he left behind not so long ago.

As Sherlock approached and knelt down, he caught sight of the newest mark, a sudden and harsh reminder of what they still had to deal with. The younger man dried him off slowly, almost reverently, not saying a word. He looked amazing, his slanted eyes and dark mane giving off a fey appearance in the hazy light.

There was a moment of pause as Sherlock looked down at him, lips worrying, eyes not quite relaxed. And then he turned around and went back to the kitchen, dropping the soiled towel in the sink. Lestrade’s skin prickled and he sat a bit straighter, feeling somewhat self-conscious dressed in nothing but a damp tee.

Sherlock stood in front of the sink, hands braced on either side of him on the countertop, head straight on his shoulders.

“I know you know. About Mary.”

Just like that the heat evaporated, leaving only a frigid shell, and he was shaking from head to toe. “I do know.”

The tendons in Sherlock’s back flexed and strained as he straightened out, running a hand through his thick hair. Lestrade wished he could see his face. “Sherlock, come here, please.”

Curiously, Sherlock turned around and glided back over to the living room, completely unselfconscious of his nakedness. He plopped down next to Lestrade on the sofa, hands interweaving in his lap. “So now what,” he demanded, and that could have really meant anything. Lestrade heaved a heavy sigh.

“Now nothing. I don’t really know anything except for who pulled the trigger. I don’t know why, I don’t know any of the details and I don’t know why you’re covering for her.”

Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on pale knees, eyes straight ahead. “Mary was being threatened by Magnussen. She was there in his office that day, the same day we were, completely unrelated to our own investigation. Wrong place, wrong time, as they say.”

Lestrade shook his head, anger boiling over. “That doesn’t explain, why she shot _you_.”

“She needed to bide some time. I’m perfectly aware of how ridiculous that sounds, considering I’m the one she shot. But it’s the truth. She never intended for John to find out.”

“Who is she? Who is she really?”

A small shrug. “I have suspicions, but nothing concrete. I don’t dare ask Mycroft, and no I don’t think he knows anything about her, including any suspicions regarding the shooting. She’s highly trained, that’s quite obvious. And I don’t actually think she’s British. I haven’t seen or spoken with her since that night here. And I’m assuming that’s how you found out, from Mrs. Hudson. Never could stop her gossiping.”

“Why could you not tell me?” he asked, bitterness lacing his voice. He couldn’t help it, he was beyond disappointed.

Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t know what you would do.”

He gaped. “What do you think I would have done? Killed her in cold blood? For vengeance? Brought her to the Met for an interrogation?” Sherlock said nothing.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I had thought we were beyond all this.” He looked away, face hard.

“I was afraid, Greg.” Sherlock’s voice was no more than a whisper, but loud enough to stop his heart. He whirled his head back.

“Afraid?”

Sherlock rubbed at his brow, eyes flickering anxiously. “Yes. I was completely thrown off by her. She fooled even me. My defenses had dropped and then she shot me and trying to worm my way out of that was a chore, I assure you. And then I thought of John and how he’d never know. If I died, he’d never know and I wasn’t sure if he’d be in danger and I couldn’t just _die_ and allow anything horrific to happen. So I fought and I lived.”

Lestrade didn’t know what to say. Hearing Sherlock speak of dying like it was an inconvenience was both astonishing and morbid, and so very like him. “So then what happened?”

Sherlock took a deep intake of breath, and leaned back against the cool leather cushions. “I plotted to trap her. And I did, along with John who at first refused to believe me, naturally. I think it was only because of my exhaustive, near-death state that he agreed to go with me at all. And now...now I’m not sure what happens next. I suppose it’s not really up to me. John is still mulling everything over. Of course staring at her growing belly every day isn’t helping much.”

Lestrade’s mouth dropped and Sherlock turned towards him, his own expression changing. “Oh...you didn’t know.”

“Christ.”

“Yes, well...I can’t imagine they had many opportunities to alert everyone. I only found out incidentally, at their wedding.” He shook his head as if attempting to erase that particular event.

“God, I don’t even know what to say.” That was a complete understatement. He was floored.

“Well, now you know everything. So, I’ll repeat: now what?”

Lestrade blinked in confusion. But Sherlock’s eyes were intent and questioning and realization dawned. He pursed his lips. “I’m leaving this with you,” and was pleased to see the split second’s worth of shock on his face. “You say the word, and I’ll bring her in myself. You tell me to back off, and against every protective fibre I will do so. Nothing’s changed except now I know the truth. I just wish I knew it sooner, but as long as you tell me there’s nothing to fear from Mary, I’ll trust you in that.”

“There’s nothing further.”

Lestrade swallowed and nodded. “Shower, then?”

***

He lay awake, Sherlock’s long limbs all over the place. The double wasn’t nearly large enough for the both of them but he wasn’t complaining. He was simply too wired to sleep. He thought he’d be completely knackered after all the revelations and physical activity, but his mind was still spinning.

Surprisingly enough, agreeing to disregard an attempted murderer and lying about it to everyone was the least of his worries. Nevermind that he could potentially lose his job and everything he’d worked for if anyone were to find out. Plus there was Mycroft. If he found out he was keeping vital information about his brother’s shooter a secret... he shuddered against the cool sheets, burrowing closer to Sherlock's body heat.

No, there was still a much larger piece to this whole puzzle. The same name, coming up, over and over.

Sherlock was still embroiled in this whole affair, whether he liked it or not and he had a bad feeling nothing good would come of it. He supposed there was no point thinking about it, not at this time anyway.

One thing at a time. He nestled against warm skin, slowly drifting off.

***

Lestrade wasn’t a complete idiot. He was perfectly aware that Mycroft knew of their...association. Therefore, if Lestrade didn’t continue to inquire, or pester Mycroft, suspicion would arise. So he took it upon himself to text him now and again, just simple, straightforward messages.

  _Did you find whoever shot your brother?_

_Any word on the shooter? Anything at all?_

  _What the hell, Mycroft, it’s been three months!_

The queesy, nervous feeling never fully dissipated, however, but it became less intense as summer quickly turned to autumn, and Sherlock got his coat out of his closet.

The younger detective met him at a crime scene--double homicide-- and Lestrade couldn’t help the eye-roll. It felt nice to be back in his element, with Sherlock by his side, Sally sneering off to the other side.

“Gardener,” Sherlock quickly surmised, and trotted off to find a cab, boredom setting in after he detailed the evidence. Lestrade stayed behind of course, taking care of the important details, and putting said gardener for the estate under arrest.

He was nearly inside the cab, eagerly awaiting Baker Street, when Sherlock called him, a rare occurrence. Frowning, he answered straight away.

“Yea, everything okay, Sher?”

“I’m coming over. John wants to stay at Baker Street tonight.” Everything left unsaid churned Lestrade’s stomach all over again. He sighed. “Right. So you don’t want to be there for him, for support or whatever?”

“No. I think John wants to be left alone.”

“Oh, course. Well, I’ll see you in a bit then. Don’t break into my flat. I dunno how you managed it last time, Sherlock, but I can give you a key, you know.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He hung up, perturbed, but too tired to stay annoyed for long. He understood the reason for calling. Texting left traces. Mycroft was good at covering ground. Of course, he could also tap into Sherlock’s mobile and listen in, but that was less likely. He hoped.

He arrived home tired and cranky, his back bruised from where his idiotic suspect attempted and succeeded in kicking him as his officers were trying to put cuffs on. He said as much to Sherlock--who had once again picked his lock-- and a strange look passed his face before he demanded to see the bruising.

Lestrade took off his shirt, facing away. Then he felt probing, cold fingers pressing against his back, not too gently, either. He wanted to think Sherlock felt concerned for his injury, but he was probably only curious about the magnitude and scope of the bruising. Sherlock also didn’t deny this when he mentioned it.

Sherlock did surprise him however, when he whipped out his violin case from behind the sofa, and Lestrade’s face grew warm with delight. He sat down to watch the magic of Sherlock’s playing, speechless and enthralled.

“I can’t remember the last time I watched you play,” he commented afterwards. Sherlock’s lip quirked downwards. “Well I hope that was up to your standards, Greg,” he teased.

Lestrade smirked. “Don’t spoil me, Sherlock. I could get used to this.”

“I prefer a live audience, anyway,” he said softly, placing his precious violin away. He took a seat next to Lestrade, head falling back. Lestrade gave him a sidelong glance, his heart a flutter. He thought, he could get used to this…

***

Sherlock had nightmares. At Baker Street they were rare, and Lestrade would forget. And then if by chance Sherlock spent the night at his flat, he’d wake, body going stiff, face covered in sweat. He got himself under control fairly quickly but further rest was futile. Lestrade would ask him about them, but Sherlock didn’t like to dwell. Not on the nightmares, and not on his past. Whatever happened to him during his three years away was still lurking deep in the recesses of his mind, and only in sleep did he prove vulnerable. So Sherlock would work on Lestrade’s laptop until dawn, and the older detective would eventually fall back to sleep, worry lines creasing his face, even in rest.

He hated seeing Sherlock like that, but he quickly learned that some things you had to deal with on your own.

***

“I’m heading out of town for Christmas. Going to see my aunt and other relatives, I’m sure. It’s been a while, and I think she gets so lonely, after mum passed.” Lestrade set the electric razor to his face, sparing a glance in the mirror to gauge Sherlock’s reaction.

The younger detective murmured something unitelligent as he tucked in his shirt, hair a bird’s nest on his head.

“You have any plans?” he asked over the hum of the razor. Sherlock walked into the bathroom, throwing his jacket on, looking incredibly hot and mussed. Sherlock pursed his lips as he glanced in the mirror, ruffling his hair into some order.

“I am being forced to spend Christmas with Mycroft and my parents.” He made it sound like he was being led to the electric chair.

“Sounds nice. Just you four, then?”

“And John and Mary.” He ducked out of the bathroom and Lestrade stilled his hand. He turned round, frowning.

“So what does that mean then? Are they...fine?”

Sherlock finished with his shoes, hands on hips. “I don’t know. John is being annoyingly coy and I can’t be bothered to extract his thoughts from his mind. And Mary keeps calling at random times, wondering about John, like I have any more knowledge than she does.” His eyes danced, mouth turning down. “Well, I actually probably do know more than she does, but I really don’t intend to get in the middle of anything.”

“So why are they going to your parent’s house?”

Sherlock sighed. “They wanted to meet John.” His cheeks turned slightly pink and he turned away, annoyed, and Lestrade grinned.

“That’s practically adorable, them wanting to meet your best bud.”

“Shut up, Greg,” warned an unamused Sherlock. Lestrade turned back to his task, a wide grin plastered on his face. He heard the door slam somewhere in the background but his expression didn’t change.

***

Somerset was a nice change, but brought back unpleasant memories of his mother’s funeral. His aunt Beth had greeted him at the train station, a wide smile on her face. She hugged him, and a wave of melancholy passed through him as he took her in. She looked so like his mother, it hurt to think of her dead and gone.

Her old house at Hedgend Road was all decorated for the holidays, and the lovely welcome he received from his niece and nephews brought his spirits back up. After he got comfortable, we started to wonder how Sherlock was getting on.

He thought of him often on the train ride over. Sherlock had actually seemed a bit distracted as they said their farewells, his blue eyes stormy and contemplative. Sherlock once mentioned to him he thought Christmas (and every holiday) was a complete waste of time, so he thought the reason for his cross mood was because of that, and he let it go. They shook hands as they parted outside, Sherlock in one cab, Lestrade in another.

Now, he took his phone out and texted him.

_Got in about an hour ago. Everything good with you guys?_

_Just peachy. We are going caroling in a bit. SH_

He grinned, fingers moving.

     _That’ll be a sight. Try not to kill your brother. It is Christmas after all. Say hi to John for me. And try not to argue with your parents…_

_I’ll try. Making no promises. SH_

He laughed, shaking his head.

     _Happy Christmas, Sherlock_

_Happy Christmas, Greg… SH_


	16. Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this fic! There is one last part, after this chapter, and I hope to have it up quite soon. 
> 
> I'm assuming everyone reading has watched His Last Vow as there are SPOILERS here. Enjoy!

Lestrade had planned to stay until the twenty-seventh. He would have visited with family, shared stories, opened gifts on Christmas, and walked around the town some the next morning. A short, but relaxing holiday.

And yet there he was on Boxing Day, anxiously staring out the window as the train neared Paddington, his fingers drumming against his thigh since the moment he left Somerset.  He’d made up an excuse. New case that demanded his attention. Must get back to London urgently. They were all very understanding, even as guilt crawled around in his belly.

He stared down at his mobile for the umpteenth time, mentally cursing, willing it to do something. Once again, thanks to Sherlock, his plans had changed.

He had texted him on Christmas day, wishing him a happy holiday again, though he heard nothing back. Thinking nothing of it, he got distracted at his aunt’s, and it wasn’t until dark when he checked his phone and found nothing from Sherlock.

Heart skipping a beat--though why he couldn’t say-- he texted again. He paced around for a few moments and finally dialed. His call went straight to voicemail, which made his insides freeze. He immediately called John and received the same lack of response.

His hands were shaking as he took a seat and tried to calm his nerves. He knew it was probably nothing, but every time he thought that in regards to Sherlock, it was always _something_. He glanced at the clock in dismay. It was probably too late to catch the train back to London and he didn’t want to run out on his family on Christmas.

He told his Aunt Beth he’d had a call from work, and he was planning on leaving in the morning. He went to the guest room and gathered everything together, then sat on the bed, a headache blooming. He knew he’d be getting no rest that night, but surprisingly enough, after watching a few hours of telly, he dozed off and woke at six.

Now he was standing, his bag clenched in his hands, waiting for the train to come to a stop. The crowds were surprisingly strong as he stepped onto the platform, pushing his way through. Not a minute later, he received a text.

Nearly dropping the phone in alarm he glanced down, hoping it was Sherlock. It wasn’t. In fact, this was the last person he hoped it would be.

      _Do not go to Baker Street and do not attempt to contact Sherlock. MH_

His breath left him as his terrible suspicions were confirmed. He stood, dumbfounded as travelers milled around him, though he heard nor saw any of it.

He swallowed thickly and made his way over to a less crowded area, dropping his bag.

      _What happened? Where is he?_

Every single second of silence was agony and he grabbed his bag and marched out of the station, queuing up to grab a cab. He called John when he got inside. No answer. He rubbed his face in frustration, his skin prickling with tension.

When he got to his flat he tried again, and again. Helpless, he dropped on his sofa, a sigh of raw frustration leaving his lips. He was still shaking all over, his bottom lip raw from gnawing on it for the last two hours.

He needed a shower and he needed answers. The shower was the easier of the two to accomplish. He stood under the boiling spray, unable to get properly warm. His mobile lay on the tile just outside the tub, just in case. He dried off quickly, wrapping the towel around his waist and storming into his bedroom for clean clothes.

When he felt presentable enough, he left the flat. Screw Mycroft.

The cab pulled up to Baker Street and he got out, looking around, slightly paranoid. Seeing nothing amiss, he took out the key--never did get to return it to John--and unlocked the door. He took a deep breath and slowly walked upstairs.

The flat was silent, and empty. Clean too, thanks to Mrs. Hudson. No sign that anyone at all had been there since after Sherlock left it. Just to be sure he checked the other rooms, finding nothing incriminating. His phone vibrated.

      _I told you not to go there. He won’t be there. MH_

His blood boiled and he saw red.

      _Where the fuck is he?? I want to talk to him NOW. Where is Sherlock???_

_Go home, Inspector. You will be contacted shortly. Don’t bother getting a hold of John, either. MH_

He read the text in despair, energy seeping out of his pores. He sucked in a breath, realizing it was futile to argue or reason with Mycroft.

He went home.

***

As the day dragged and the light faded, and his feet ached from the constant pacing, he got a phone call. His heart nearly imploded in his chest as he went to answer it, seeing Mycroft’s name on the caller ID.

“Mycroft.” His voice was haggard and anxious, his hands shaking anew.

“Good evening, Inspector. I must make this brief, as I have some...things to attend to. But I wished to explain what has transpired, and the serious situation Sherlock has found himself in.”

Lestrade swallowed. “What’s he done?” The list was infinite.

There was a long pause on the other end, which only escalated Lestrade’s unease, and he had to sit down.

“We’re keeping it out of the media for now, but I can’t imagine by tomorrow it won’t have circulated.”

“Mycroft,” he pleaded, barely recognizing his own voice. Another pause followed, and then a sigh, defeated and tired.

“Sherlock shot Magnussen.”

Lestrade lost all sense of time in that moment, fingers perilously close to losing their grip on his mobile. He shook and shook, jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it. With his free hand he placed it against his mouth, afraid of what would follow next.

Mycroft, insightful as ever, went on, taking his silence for the shock that it was.

“He’s dead,” came the clipped tone. “Sherlock shot Magnussen at his own home, with John’s gun and now he’s in custody. This occurred yesterday, after he had finished dosing his family with a sleeping draught and lifting my laptop to essentially attempt to sell off to Magnussen. Of course, being Sherlock, who always thinks he’s cleverer than most, well his ruse didn’t exactly go as planned.” His tone grew dark and bitter, and Lestrade’s heart shattered for what Sherlock’s brother must be going through right now.

His breath left him, pained and laborious and his lips curled down, quivering against his palm.

“He’s in custody right now, and shall remain so, until I can figure out how to handle this. John’s still being interrogated and I--” An uncharacteristic hesitation, a deep intake of breath. “I now have to explain to our parents that their son’s life is over as he knows it.”

His eyes filled, anger and anguish and denial all in one. “Mycroft…” he pleaded, not knowing what he was even asking for. He had no right, he knew, none, to ask the older Holmes for anything. Not at a time like this. But he couldn’t help the overwhelming sadness, and the shock still reverberating through him.

“I want to see him,” he finally managed, his face damp and mouth tasting of salt.

“That’s impossible, Inspector. Where he is now--”

“Don’t fucking tell me it’s impossible, Mycroft! You of all people can manage it, I know you can. Don’t you dare tell me I can’t see him,” he choked, furious and broken. “Don’t you try it…”

He angrily wiped at his face, taking a shaky breath to center himself, too exhausted to feel self-conscious of his composure.

“Don’t for a moment believe I don’t sympathize with you, Greg,” Mycroft said softly. “I am more sorry than I can say. But this is not up to me. If the circumstances change, you will of course be notified,” he finished wearily, as if he knew his own words were meaningless.

“John will most likely be released in the morning. You may speak with him then, and get the whole story. I am not currently in the disposition to tell it, you’ll have to forgive me. I’m afraid that’s all the time I currently have...I have to meet with some people now to discuss the next course of action. I will be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Lestrade dropped the phone. His head felt like it might split in two, piercing and throbbing, matching the pain in his chest. He dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the shaking, the flow of tears.

This was not happening. It was not actually possible that he could feel this way and that he was living this nightmare. His whole frame shook, from grief, from fright, from anger. He couldn’t escape the skin-crawling feeling of dread, of what would happen tomorrow, and the day after that.

Sherlock had killed a man. He killed Magnussen. For months that name had been hanging mutely over their heads and now it concludes--with a body and a man holding the gun. He scrubbed at his face, wanting to tear the flesh to divert the pain from his chest. He shut his eyes against the onslaught of emotion, rolling in waves.

There was nothing he could currently do. Sherlock couldn’t talk. Mycroft was busy and John wouldn’t be free until tomorrow. He was left with nothing but his painful, tormented thoughts, and Mycroft’s harsh words, so obviously pained beneath all the dry and cold exterior.

He was having difficulties breathing and nearly went for his inhaler though he knew he really just needed to calm down. Clearly an impossible task but there was nothing else to be done. He needed to pull himself together and clear his mind.

He was actually extremely tired and knew sleep would help even though that was the last thing he wanted at the moment. So he went to his medicine cabinet and found his sleeping pills that he took once in a great while and popped them in his mouth, swallowing them dry. He trudged over to his bed and sat down.

His whole body ached, flu-like chills rolling through him with every breath he took. His lids felt heavy, obscuring his vision almost pleasantly. In the dark, he heard the pounding in his ears as his pulse refused to settle down. Meanwhile his head was being hammered and a tiny moan passed his lips before his face scrunched up in pain.

He put his face in his pillow and willed himself to sleep. But even with the meds, sleep was a long time coming. And when it did, he welcomed the relief, thanking God for the lack of dreams.

The instant that he woke it all crashed upon him and he froze against the mattress, alert and distressed. He took his time getting out of bed, as his head was still killing him and he had no energy left.

He glanced over at the clock and noticed it was past nine. He idly wondered if John had been released yet and if he could speak with him. He thought about Sherlock, sitting in an isolated cell, probably bored out of his mind. Was he being interrogated? He had a feeling whoever had that honor would be very sorry, very quickly. He sighed. The truth was he was blind. He had no idea what was happening to Sherlock, or what would become of him.

Sherlock murdered a man. His mind--and stomach-- rebelled at the thought. An invisible hand squeezed his heart like a vise when he envisioned Sherlock shooting a man in cold blood. He rubbed his forehead and sat up, bleary-eyed and still tired.

Like a slug, he slithered out of bed and went to take care of business in the bathroom. Afterwards he went to the living room and turned on the telly. As if compelled, he turned to the news. His mouth parted as he stared at the screen, at the massive headline, and the dour-looking reporters all expressing their shock and dismay at the death of a wealthy, powerful individual. Only snippets passed through his mental barriers, but not once did he hear of or see an image of Sherlock. They were speculating with ‘an unidentified suspect in custody’, and a possible ‘accomplice’ and he supposed he had Mycroft to thank for keeping Sherlock and John’s names out of the press. For now.

He reached for the remote to turn off the telly when he heard his phone go off. He jumped off the sofa and ran back into his bedroom to retrieve his mobile.

“Yeah, John,” he rasped, hand unable to hold the phone steady.

“I’m coming over.” He hung up and Lestrade went to put the kettle on.

***

John looked ashen and torn as he opened the door. He took one look at Lestrade and shut down, practically heaving with tension in the doorway. Lestrade ushered him in, and sat him down in the living room. Without a word he went to the kitchen and brought back two steaming mugs of strong coffee.

John had visibly calmed down when he sat opposite to him, mugs on the coffee table. The shorter man was wringing his hands, his clothing rumpled and deep lines around his mouth and eyes. It’s like he aged a decade overnight.

“John,” he began, voice thick. “I-- did you just get out? I mean, don’t you want to go home first? Tell Mary you’re okay?”

John blinked slowly at the steaming mugs on the table, not budging an inch. “I phoned her to tell her I was out and would be home in a bit. I...couldn’t let her see me like this.” Finally his eyes moved over in increments, landing on Lestrade’s own tortured ones. He could only nod in understanding.

“Mycroft called me.”

John nodded slowly. “I know. He said. That’s another reason I came here first. I knew he didn’t tell you everything. Probably not even close. I’m sure when you heard…” He looked down again, nose twitching, lip straining.

“God, Greg, I am so sorry.” The voice was steady but his eyes betrayed his tone, bright and glittering. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know he was going to--” his hand came up to his mouth, effectively stopping the tirade.

“I know, John. I know you wouldn’t have let him.”

John looked at him, guilt hiding behind those stoney eyes. “It’s my fault. I took the gun. I took the gun because he asked, even though it was Christmas and there was no fucking need for the damned gun. Why did I take it, Greg?” he snarled. “Why did I listen to him?”

Lestrade looked away. “When have we ever not listened to Sherlock?”

John shook his head. “Good God...it’s absolutely true. We’ve been conditioned to obey him even when it doesn’t make sense.” He looked down in dismay.

Lestrade leaned forward, taking a deep breath. “Tell me, John. Tell me everything.”

John looked tormented and unsure, unable to meet his eyes. And of course he knew why. He sighed, and steeled himself.

“I know about Mary, John. I’ve known for months.” Wide, startled eyes drifted over to his, silently questioning. “Believe it or not I sort of surmised it. Sherlock filled in the gaps after he realized I knew, and didn’t want me going off and doing anything...drastic.” he shook his head, bitter. “I’ve let it go, for Sherlock, because he asked me to. “But now I wanna know, John. I wanna know what the hell happened at Magnussen’s. I want to know everything.”

John looked pained and Lestrade felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. First Mary, now Sherlock. He felt for John, really he did. But he wouldn’t sit by in the dark, not this time.

John sighed, his whole body shuddering. “Fine,” he whispered, licking his bottom lip. “I’ll tell you what happened…”

***

He felt cold all over, like someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over him, and he’d never be warm again. Sometime, during the last few moments of John’s speech, his eyes drifted off towards his window, taking in the muted shapes of buildings outside, grey and somber.

He took in John’s words with detachment, hearing them perfectly but not understanding a word that was said. It seemed impossible, what John was saying. Pure fiction. And when the voice faded he glanced back and found the other man despondent and drained, and that’s when it hit him.

This actually happened. Sherlock was most likely going to be locked up for the rest of his life. Lestrade’s own life would be over as well. He had fought so hard for this. For them. Whatever they were to each other. Every day Lestrade fought, and hoped and yearned. And now…

He swallowed thickly, realizing he hadn’t said a word since John started to speak. “I don’t know what to say. I want to say that Sherlock wouldn’t do a thing like this but I’d be lying. I want to wake up now but this isn’t a fucking dream. Whatever I say would be meaningless anyway. I mean, it’s over, right? Everything is done. Sherlock is done. His family is scarred for life. And me... “ he shut his eyes. “I’m probably finished too. Forget the promotion, my job is probably lost after this.”

“Greg-”

“No, John. It’s true. You know it is.”  John looked away, folding his hands, shoulders dropping.

“Did you get to see him, before you left?”

John shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me. I’m actually surprised they released me so quickly but I figure that was Mycroft’s doing. It’s true that I didn’t know a thing.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “And to think I actually thought I’d have a nice Christmas this year. Meeting Sherlock’s parents, talking to Mary and telling her that it doesn’t matter…” He looked exhausted and small sitting there, energy seeping out of him bit by bit.

“Go to Mary, John,” he said. “Go. I’m sure Mycroft will get it touch soon and you look like you need some proper rest. Thank you, though. For coming here and telling me everything.”

John slowly nodded, eyes downcast. He placed his hands on his knees and stood, wrecked and torn. Lestrade followed suit.

“Greg, I really am sorry. For everything.” For not protecting Sherlock. For Mary. The unspoken thoughts were hidden behind his guilt-ridden expression. Lestrade’s heart clenched. He stepped forward, barely hesitating. He grabbed hold of John and pulled him forward.

“Don’t, John. None of this is your fault. None of it.” His fingers curled around John’s back as he felt warm hands fisting the back of his shirt. John pulled away first, eyes bloodshot and torn.

“Let me know if Mycroft contacts you. For whatever reason. I’d like to know what’s going on.” John’s voice was thick and shallow. Lestrade nodded. “Course.”

John left, and the feeling of desolation surged once again.

***

He took a walk. He needed to get the hell out of his flat before claustrophobia set in. Staring at the same walls for hours was really starting to get to him. He threw on some comfortable clothes and his coat and set out.

It was brisk and grey, ideal for his current mood. He stuffed his hands inside his pockets and set a pace, his trainers smacking the pavement with each hard step. He had no destination nor a goal. He just needed to keep moving. He thought about heading into work, even though he was officially still on holiday, but he really didn’t want to deal with any questions.

An hour later he was cold but refreshed, cheeks red and fingertips numb. Still, he felt like he had accomplished something, rather than weeping into his pillow all day. He took a brief rest at the park and went back to his flat.

He didn’t think it possible but his stomach cramped with hunger when he got in so he microwaved a frozen dinner and slowly ate it, not tasting much. On the telly the news was the same so he changed it to an animal program just to have some background noise. He took a warm shower and threw on some clean clothes. And then he continued his wait.

It was nearly impossible not to think of Sherlock. He thought of him in a cell, comatose with boredom. He thought of him holding a gun, pulling the trigger. He thought of his face, and what it might have looked like at that moment. It came in flashes, the imagery, pricking his heart every time. And the worst thought of all, the one he refused to believe, was that he might never get to see him again.

Disbelief and depression soon turned to resentment, having nothing better to do than to dwell on the situation. Despite John’s good intentions, he’d almost rather have heard the entire story from Sherlock. He wanted to look him in the eye and watch him squirm with every damning word. There would be no worming his way out of this situation, not this time. Frustration coiled itself through his blood, and defeat, for there was nothing he could do but wait.

***

When his alarm went off at six, he cringed into his pillow. Work was the very last thing on his mind. But as he glanced at his nightstand, and squinted at the clock, he also took note of his iPhone. He slowly reached forward, like he did every morning, warm fingers grasping the thin piece of technology.

He sat up straighter, breath hitching. One new message.

      _Go to work, Inspector. And stand by. MH_

He closed his eyes, indignant and annoyed. He tossed his phone aside and went to get ready. He didn’t bother with the news or the paper. He was too nervous they’d elaborate further and name names.

By the time he got to the Met he was a fidgety wreck, though no one exactly noticed. Everyone welcomed him back, inquiring about his Christmas. He mumbled something and ducked into his office. He shut the door and prayed no one would notice he was there.

Sally came in ten minutes later. “Hey, boss.”

“Sally.” He was typing something on his computer, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Nice holiday?”

“Yea, thanks. You?”

“Alright, I suppose,” she said with a small shrug. “Heard the news about Magnussen? It’s all over the place.”

He clenched his jaw, eyes on his screen. “Yeah, I heard.”

“No suspects, either,” she stated with a frown. He looked up, face blank.

“None? They have no idea who it was?”

Another shrug. “Magnussen’s estate is in the middle of nowhere. Would be easy for someone to slip away. There’s rumours though, of course. Helicopter sightings near Magnussen’s estate around the time of his murder. Just odd stuff.”

He looked back down. “Hmm. Thanks, Sally.” Fingers on his keyboard. She left after a nod, closing the door behind her. His breath dashed passed his lungs in a painful spike, and his body deflated, drooping into his chair. He hadn’t even realized how tightly wound he was. He took a couple of deep breaths, then went to find some coffee.

His day consisted of meetings, phone calls, cigarette breaks, more meetings and a quick visit to a crime scene from a week ago for further clues. At eight in the evening, as he was slouched in his chair, staring at nothing, his phone rang. He nearly jumped out of his skin attempting to answer it.

“Mycroft,” he breathed as quietly as possible. He got up and shut his door before resuming his seat.

“I can get you in tonight, but we won’t have much time and it has to be at two. There will be less...people to deal with.”

“Yes, fine. I’ll do whatever time you want. Just, please get me in,” he pleaded, fingers curled painfully around the phone.

“Very well. A car will pick you up at your flat at exactly two. Wait outside.” He hung up then, and the only sound Lestrade heard was the painful pounding of his heart.

***

He stood outside, hands stuffed inside his pockets, trying not to look like he was waiting for someone at two in the morning. He snuffed out his third cigarette and tried not to pace around. At precisely two, a sleek, black Audi pulled up. He was already moving towards the back when the front passenger door swung open and Mycroft leaned across, barely visible in the dark.

“Get in.”

He got in, rapidly blinking. The door was barely shut before Mycroft hit the gas. The situation was so odd he didn’t say a word for the first five minutes. After a while he couldn’t stay silent.

“Didn’t know you drove.”

Mycroft apparently thought that didn’t warrant a response, his gloved fingers curled around the leather steering wheel. He navigated through London expertly, and Lestrade was reminded of Sherlock and his insane knowledge of every street and alleyway in the city, every shortcut and bridge.

After a while he sighed, knees jittery. “How is he?”

Mycroft didn’t react. “You’ll see for yourself.”

For some reason that didn’t reassure him. “Damn it, Mycroft. You said I won’t have much time with him so I’d rather be prepared. Just tell me he’s physically fine so I can stop having a heart attack.”

He turned and glared at Mycroft’s harsh profile, willing him to speak. After a beat, Mycroft eased up, eyes fluttering briefly before resuming his fixed glare at the road.

“Sherlock is _fine_. I do not mean to placate you, Inspector, when I say this. I’ve spoken to him a number of times now and he does not seem to be bothered by the fact that he killed a man and will possibly be incarcerated for the rest of his life.” The voice was steady but laced with bitterness and unease, and Lestrade wilted.

“What’s really going to happen to him?” he asked with dread. He watched Mycroft’s jaw, his mouth, his hands tensing around the wheel. His heart sank. He never got an answer. He turned around, eyes unfocused as London sped by, dark and radiant.

When they arrived, there was the expected security. At one gate, then another. Each time Mycroft stated his name, showed some form of ID. Lestrade, never having been to the MI6 building, was strangely not overly curious, just anxious. His stomach was in knots as they got closer to their destination.

When they parked in the underground garage, his feet nearly didn’t wish to cooperate. Mycroft briskly led the way, again having to stop at a secure door before being allowed to pass. The guards barely glanced at Lestrade. Apparently Mycroft was extremely high on the totem pole and was allowed to do whatever he needed to do.

The building was huge and he wasn’t sure where he was, especially in the dark. He stayed close to Mycroft as their heels clacked down corridor after endless corridor. The only lift they entered went down, so he assumed wherever they held anybody it was in the underground levels.

After they exited the lift, they entered another corridor, empty and silent save for their shoes, and security cameras hanging discreetly from the ceiling. He tried not to look at them too often. They rounded a corner and sighted another door, this one wide and heavy, made of thick steel and featuring more security as well as an entry code.

Mycroft’s badge was scanned and he removed a glove to enter the elaborate code on the keypad. The door clicked open. They walked through and were immediately surrounded by cell doors. The space wasn’t large and there weren’t too many but they were all grey, steel enclosures, and Sherlock was behind one of them.

He felt nauseated and hot as he glanced at the doors and the multitude of cameras surrounding the space. Mycroft was already walking towards the last cell. Past that there was another man standing guard, looking bored. Mycroft took no notice of him as he typed in the code to unlock the cell door. It swung open ominously.

Mycroft whirled around to face him. “Two minutes, Inspector.”

“What? Two?” he sputtered.

Mycroft leveled a look. “Two. I suggest you not waste them.” He walked away, towards the timid-looking guard. Lestrade swallowed and turned towards the slightly ajar door. Shaking, he reached out to pull it open.

When he walked in, Sherlock was standing, hands clased at his back. He looked perfectly at ease, save for the smallest of ticks near his jawline, and the stubble covering his face.

“Sherlock…”

“I’m sure Mycroft warned you our time is limited.” He worried his lip for a second. “I’m sorry you had to come here. This wasn’t my intended goal, I assure you. I know you have questions but I assume John apprised you of everything. Whatever he told you is true, save for the last minute decision to shoot Magnussen. He would have...destroyed Mary and John. I couldn’t let him. He was a parasite and I’m not sorry he’s dead,” his eyes flashed and Lestrade nearly suffocated from the vehemence of it all. “I’m only sorry you had to come here. This wasn’t how I pictured our”--he looked down, swallowing--”goodbye.”

Lestrade gawked. “Goodbye?” He shook his head, over and over, and just before he was about to erupt, he deflated. Probably less than a minute now… He looked at Sherlock, anguish filling him. “You really don’t care that you killed him? That you’ve killed yourself?”

Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting this line of thinking. He unhooked his hands, dropping them to his sides. “I’ve killed people, Greg,” he said matter of factly. What do you think I was doing for three years? Magnussen was my gift for John,” he said, eyes cold and lethal.

Lestrade’s heart froze, the impossible cold crawling through every vessel in his body. His mouth twisted. “I know what you’re doing, Sherlock. You don’t think I know what you’re trying to do?” He stepped closer, inches from Sherlock’s pale, tired face. “You’re going to seriously waste our last moments by lying to my face?”

“Greg-”

“No. Shut up, Sherlock. Mycroft’s gonna come in here any minute now and drag me away and I don’t know what’s gonna happen next. You consciously did this,” he seethed. “You knew what you were doing and you claim it was for John? John would despise you if he heard you just now. And even though he knows you, he doesn’t know you like I do. You can’t lie to me, Sherlock. You’re not some sociopath, no matter how many times you sing that tune. Maybe Magnussen deserved to die, and maybe he didn’t, but don’t stand there and tell me you’re fine with this situation because you did this for John.”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into his, swirling and dark, a controlled breath passing his lips. “I did what I had to,” he rasped. “John is my friend and about the only one I have”--Lestrade recoiled as if struck, taking a step back. Sherlock’s brows dipped in confusion. “What-”

He held up a hand, stalling whatever nonsense Sherlock would spout next. He turned his head, and found Mycroft at the door, an expectant look on his face. His heart sank and the fight died out of him. He pressed his eyes closed, mouth pursed. “I’m not leaving like this, Sherlock,” he whispered, darkness surrounding him. If he saw Sherlock, if he opened his eyes, he didn’t know how he’d be able to leave.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Greg.”

His face fell, pressure building behind his lids, burning him, stinging him. He turned on his heel, fists clenched. “I’m not saying goodbye, Sher. I’m not.”

A soft sigh filled the room. “Then, until we meet again, Greg.”

His lips pinched shut, throat clogged. A nod, firm and resolute. And then he opened his eyes, and walked out. He vaguely heard Mycroft shut the cell door and turn to him.

“I’m sorry, Greg, for everything.”

“Just take me home,” he said in a dead tone, twin tracks racing down his face.

***

The ride back was uncomfortable and silent, despite the fact that none of this was Mycroft’s fault. Still, he needed an outlet for his wrath and it was always easy with Mycroft. When the Audi pulled up to the kerb, Lestrade’s hand was on the handle.

“Greg.”

He sucked in a deep breath, anticipating this moment since they left. He waited.

“Not even Sherlock knows this yet but I’m working on saving him from a life in prison. He would be sent back to Europe, to do undercover work for MI6. I’m waiting on final approval.”

Lestrade turned to face him, weary and detached. “And I’m assuming this undercover work is not a temporary solution. He won’t be allowed to return home.” Mycroft glanced away and Lestrade nodded to himself, already aware of the fact. “He would never last in prison anyway,” he said solemnly. “He’d rather die doing something useful. He’ll be glad for this arrangement.”

He opened the door. “Thanks for taking me, Mycroft.” Not waiting nor wanting a response he closed the door, his body aching with every movement, and walked away.

He was going to call John as he promised he’d keep in touch, but he was physically ill. Flu-like chills coursed through his body and even the tips of his fingers hurt. Every step was torture, the pressure behind his sternum building and threatening to pull him over the edge. He laid down in bed, lights off, drunk with grief.

Hours passed, the night fading to dawn, evil glittering light slowly enveloping the room, the bed, crawling over Lestrade. He turned away from the warmth. He hadn’t slept. Always just on the cusp, where thoughts may or may not have been dreams. He shuddered. This was possibly the worst day of his life, and that was saying something.

He slowly sat up, giving in to the inevitable. He rubbed at his tired face and stifled a yawn. His stomach grumbled loudly and he couldn’t remember the last proper meal he’d had. Probably not since Christmas. It would be stupid to deny his body what it clearly needed but his mind argued that point vehemently. Even if he weren’t tired, or hungry, he still wouldn’t have Sherlock. Nothing would change. He’d still be a miserable wreck.

Self-pity was not something he liked to associate with himself. He’d be lying if he said he never experienced it, though. It was always there under the surface, just waiting to spring. When he found out his wife was cheating on him, he thought he couldn’t feel worse. But then he fell for Sherlock and he’s been falling since. Falling, careening to a stuttered halt. This awful limbo was worse than anything. The not knowing.

He groaned and stretched his achy limbs, feeling chilled and exhausted. He glanced at his mobile, rubbing at his face. He reached for it, and dialed John.

He was going to tell him everything. His visit with Sherlock, and Mycroft’s intentions regarding his future. But for some reason, he didn’t want to burden John with the unknown. Get his hopes up for nothing. So he kept it short and light, omitting Sherlock’s vehement confession that he murdered for John.

“I still can’t believe Mycroft was able to get you in to see him. Or that he drove a car all by himself.”

He quirked his lip, the brief second of caprice fading as quickly as it bloomed. “Yeah, I hardly believed it myself. And I imagine Mycroft can do whatever he wants. He seems to have all sorts of power."

“Except to save Sherlock,” John said morosely.

He stilled. “Do you think Sherlock deserves to be saved?”

“What kind of question is that, Greg?”

He swallowed painfully. “Don’t get me wrong. I want Sherlock out more than anything, but John, he murdered a man in cold blood. Why should he be above the law? What differentiates him from other killers?”

“Are you serious, Greg? Sherlock’s not a killer. You weren’t there, Greg. You didn’t...see Magnussen or listen to him. He was cold, and void of everything. Compassion. Understanding. His whole adult life he spent ruining and destroying the lives of others. And for what? Money? Power? Status?”

“I get that, John, but that didn’t give Sherlock the right to murder him.”

“You know what, Greg? I don’t even have the energy to discuss this. Magnussen’s dead, and all his secrets died with him. And Sherlock will be sent away to prison. Right now I can’t find it in myself to be okay with anything that’s happened. I know why he did it. I wish he didn’t, God I do. The thought of Sherlock rotting away in a prison somewhere is horrifying. I’m angry and sad and nothing can right this. I’m ranting, I know, but Sherlock didn’t do this out of some sick, twisted urge. He did this for me, and for Mary,” John finished in a shallow whisper.

“You don’t believe that, John! Sherlock practically told me he enjoyed it. He wanted him dead, and he always gets what he wants.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Greg? Do you even hear yourself? This is _Sherlock_ we’re talking about here. The man you supposedly love. Don’t tell me you buy this sociopath bullshit. Not after all this time. I know you’re angry-- I’m angry too. I’m livid. This was not what I wanted to happen. But what is the point of hashing it all out now? Sherlock’s in prison, and we may never see him again.”

He clenched his eyes shut, body shutting down. “I don’t think I can do this, John,” he said tiredly. “Not again. I have nothing further to give. Once again Sherlock does as he pleases and I get to live with the consequences. I just don’t want to feel like that again.”

He heard a deep sigh, tense and harried. “I know, Greg. I want to scream, and tear apart everything around me, and crawl away somewhere and pretend none of this ever happened. But I can’t do that. And neither can you. This is our life, and Sherlock happens to be in it. We chose this and there’s no going back, or hiding from it. And you can say Sherlock deserves this or that, but you’d wish him next to you in a heartbeat, and so would I. And I’m going to support him from afar if I have to.”

Lestrade shuddered, his head splitting in two. “I couldn’t escape Sherlock if I wanted to. And I don’t. I just don’t want to feel this way.”

“You mean in love? Join the club because this is how I’ve been feeling for months now. It hurts this much because you’re heart is breaking. If you didn’t care for Sherlock so, you wouldn’t be feeling like your insides are being ripped from you. It fucking hurts but in the end, it all boils down to…”

“Love?” he ventured softly.

“Yes.”

***

Four days later he was at work, in the midst of a presentation, when his mobile rang. Heedless, without missing a beat he glanced down at the screen, and stuttered to a halt.

_Sherlock._

Vaguely, he was aware of the awkward silence as his team glanced around the room at each other, eyebrows raised. He stalked away.

“Gimme ten!” he screamed back to the room. He was barely out the door when he hit Talk.

“Sherlock,” his voice gave out, hoarse and panicked. He ran into the first doorway he saw, which just happened to be the loo. He bolted the door after a very quick pass to make sure all stalls were empty, his heart threatening to burst through his ribcage.

“Hello, Greg.”

His hands shook uncontrollably as he attempted to get his breathing regulated. “Why are you calling me from your mobile? Please tell me you haven’t escaped.”

Sherlock huffed a soft laugh, but Lestrade actually wasn’t joking. “It was given back to me.”

“Why? How?”

“I’ve been given a reprieve. I am no longer a prisoner, so to speak.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and the pulsating in his ears was not helping. “What do you mean, Sherlock? What’s happened?”

A pause. “I’ve been given an assignment, for MI6, in exchange for a prison sentence. I’m leaving for Europe tomorrow.”

The pressure in his chest built, threatening to crush him. He crouched down on the tile, back against the far wall. “What does that mean?” he asked dumbly, wanting Sherlock to explain it to him simply, for fear of miscommunication.

“I’ve been recruited, Greg. It’s a highly classified, probably dangerous assignment. I don’t even know all the details, though Mycroft...briefly went over things. I’m to leave tomorrow as they don’t want word leaking out regarding this or the Magnussen affair to the press.”

His jaw trembled with the effort of clenching it so much. He sat on his haunches, in the Met toilet and shook with cold, with terror. “So you’re leaving tomorrow for...how long?”

Another pause, this one infinitely more pronounced and ominous. “Sher?”

“Most likely, six months.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, void of...anything telling, and Lestrade would have given anything to see his face. He closed his eyes.

“And after?”

“Greg, please lis--”

“What happens after?” he demanded, his voice ringing loud and desperate in the empty loo. He was sitting now, on the damp and suspect ties, back flush painfully against the cold wall.

“Then I don’t know. Nothing’s been planned for after,” Sherlock revealed in a tense, pinched tone, pretty much confirming what Lestrade’s gut had been telling him.

“So it’s true. I’m never going to see you again,” he breathed, as the nausea built and built. He heard Sherlock’s strained sigh, throat working, swallowing around his guilt, so painfully loud he might as well have been in the same room. His head fell back, smacking against the wall, eyes clenched tight.

“I know there’s nothing I can say, no apology big enough, to fix this, Greg. And I can’t explain to you the depth of my remorse, for pulling you into all this. I never intended--”

“Stop, oh god stop. Sherlock. Stop talking. There’s no point. None. You’re leaving. It’s done. And I don’t feel like listening to whatever it was you were attempting to say to make me feel better, or whatever your goal was. Just tell me one thing. Did you readily agree to this? To go with MI6 to avoid prison?”

“Yes,” came the automatic response. “I couldn’t have borne it, Greg. I would have killed myself in a month from tedium.”

Lestrade nodded, though there was no one to see him. “Then I’m glad, Sher. I couldn't have pictured you in a prison, even though there was the chance that I might have seen you again.” His eyes drooped, resigned and despondent, dead. “I just want you to be careful out there, Sherlock. I know that’s not you, but you’ve been given a rare opportunity. Please, please be careful,” he croaked, eyes filling against his will.

He heard nothing for a while, as his head pounded mercilessly and his body shivered from the cold tiles. But it was nice, just knowing Sherlock was there on the other end, phone pressed to his ear.

“Greg?”

“Mmmhmm? He swallowed around a lump, choking him.

“Please watch over John? Keep him out of trouble.”

“Course. You know I will. Will you be calling him next?”

“No...Mycroft told me John will meet me at the aeroport, before I take off. And before you say anything I’ve already asked to have you there as well but Mycroft insisted you stay away. He said it would be best if you were not seen there...with me. Especially in the interest of your potential promotion.”

Bitterness raged. He swallowed it down. “He’s probably right. Too many questions raised.”

“Well. I don’t quite know what else to say,” Sherlock uttered, and Lestrade huffed a pained sigh, wiping at his face.

“Nothing, Sher. You don’t have to say a word. Just tell me-- tell me you’ll miss me,” he joked with a light tone, because he didn’t want their last minutes to be torture, or awkward.

Sherlock softly chuckled, and he knew he’d said the right thing. “I’ll miss the scones, of course.”

“Bastard,” but a soft wisp of a smile found its way to the corner of his mouth, even as he licked away trails of salt.

“I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Greg. Saying goodbye,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, crushing Lestrade’s heart to bits.

“No one is, Sher. But let’s just stick to, until we meet again.”

A whisper. “Until we meet again.”

He knew he was now all alone. Not even the reassuring breath on the other end. He dropped the phone to his lap, and broke down, completely.

***

Bone-crushingly tired, he went to the Chief.

“I got a call. Family emergency...there’s a funeral. I’m the next of kin so…” he looked down, not even having to affect a forlorn attitude. The Chief sighed, sympathetic.

“Who died?”

_Me._

“A close cousin on my mother’s side.” He cleared his throat. “Sally is more than qualified to take over for the next couple of days.”

The Chief nodded, rubbing at his jaw. “Of course. You have the time, Greg, I know you do. You hardly ever go anywhere. Take whatever time you need.” He paused and gave him a good look-over. “You look like hell. Go, do whatever you need to do.” 

Lestrade nodded solemnly and quietly thanked his superior. Then he turned around and left, scanning the place for Donovan. After he found her and explained the bogus situation, she nodded, eyes downcast.

“Sorry to hear, sir. I’ve got everything here, so don’t worry.”

“Thanks, Sally. Glad to hear. I’ll call to check in.” He went back to his office to collect his keys, and then he walked out of the Met. Back home, he lounged on his sofa, depressed and brittle, wishing for this horrible day to end. He shut off his mobile and went to his bedroom, dropping on the bed, suit and all. He didn’t think it possible, but he slept.

When he woke, it was dark in the flat. The time already nine p.m. He’d slept for hours, blissfully dream-free. And he wasn’t quite ready to relinquish that feeling. Closing his eyes, he was soon asleep once more.

***

He had a massive headache upon waking up. It was different from his typical migraines, though. This was the sort you got after you’ve rendered yourself a weeping, slobbering mess and had nothing left to give. Worse than a hangover headache. Not so easily curable.

He lay twisted in his blankets, jacket wrinkled and dress shirt choking him. The light from the windows hurt his bleary eyes, and did nothing positive for his head. He sat up, legs thrown over the side. He drooped, boneless, shoulders, back, neck, all aching.

The clock read ten and he suddenly, painfully, had no idea when Sherlock was leaving. He knew it was this morning. Had he already taken off, plane taking him farther away? Or was he waiting on the runway, a solitary figure dressed in black, hands clasped behind his back in silent contemplation?

The overwhelming urge to call him surged forth, his stomach convulsing from the need of it. But somehow, he stayed put, revolting against the desire. He knew it would be a mistake. They had already said their goodbyes. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t tell Sherlock he loved him. He placed his head in his hands, his jaw trembling. He was going to say it. It was what people did, right? Tell someone you loved them if you were never going to see them again? But he hadn’t said it. Deep down he’d been afraid. Afraid to breathe those words. Because he had no idea what he’d get in return. He refused to let their last moments between them be uncomfortable or sentimental. Sherlock would have hated it.

Or would he?

He groaned, but he wouldn’t take it back. Sherlock had never openly expressed whatever it was he felt for Lestrade. And of course he never asked. Again, too cowardly to hear whatever controlled response passed those lips. He couldn’t bear it. He envisioned many times how that conversation would go and each and every time it ended with a lack of ‘I love you’ from Sherlock. It was just as well. He couldn’t dwell on it.

He stood up, legs wobbly. Making a sudden decision, he tore into his wardrobe. He found his overnight bag, throwing in trousers, and tees, thermals, jumpers, socks, pants. He strode to the bathroom, gathering his toiletries. He found some snacks in his pantry, stuffing them inside. He zipped it up, and went to shower.

He locked up his flat, hailed a cab, and went to his favourite pub. It was hardly noon but he didn’t care. He sat at the bar, placing his bag on the floor next to his feet, and ordered a pint. The game was on the numerous televisions around him. A few patrons were already in their booths, nursing a drink of their own, or yelling at the screen.

His drink arrived and he thanked the bartender, laid down some bills, and took a deep swig of his Guinness. It was bliss. It was exactly what he needed, just a bit of normalcy before he got the hell out of London.

He was actually eyeing the game, finishing up his second pint, slightly buzzed, when something happened. Something impossible. Inconceivable.

As the tellys seemingly simultaneously malfunctioned, a face appeared, blurry and jagged at first, then more clear and improbable. He’d never forget that face.

And he was repeating the same phrase over, and over and over.

‘Did you miss me?’

And as Lestrade’s jaw dropped, his heart malfunctioning, eyes clearly playing tricks on him, he had just one thought.

“Oh, Christ.”

 

 


	17. Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade have always had a volatile relationship, but that's all they've ever known

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, the last chapter! Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed and all the kudos this fic has received, I was thrilled beyond words!
> 
> Quick note: There is a scene here than references the deleted hospital scene from His Last Vow. It's not necessary to watch it (though you really should anyway because it's so perfectly awkward and creepy) and can easily be found on Youtube if anyone is interested. Enjoy!!

The train arrived at the Brighton station that evening without trouble or delay, and Lestrade was immediately able to get a cab. As the sun set they drove through the streets, still quite crowded, despite the cold. Not as stifling as in the summertime, however. The cabbie dropped him off right in front of the cottage and he paid, slowly getting out with his bag.

He always loved coming here, his old family holiday home. It’d been in the family forever and was surely worth a pretty penny but he didn’t care about that. He’d never sell it. No matter how few times he’d been there the older he got, the days he spent there were worth everything to him.

Mere yards from the chalk cliff, the view was remarkable and priceless. As the cold breeze stirred his short hair, he thought the view might have to wait till morning. He took out his keys, walked up the path and unlocked the door. Dusty air greeted him, but again, he didn’t mind.

As much as he loved London, the nostalgia he got when he came to Brighton was like a claw, threatening to pull him in, keep him there a while longer. He put his bag down and turned on the lights, looking around. Aside from the dust, not much had changed since his last visit. His aunt Beth also had a key, and free reign to come and go as she pleased, but it didn’t look like she’d been there much either.

He sighed, and went to the kitchen. He’d have to go shopping in the morning for a few necessities, since his snacks wouldn’t tide him over. He could call for takeaway, but he really didn’t want to disturb the quiet. He turned on the tap to get some water and went to the living room, sinking into the well-worn sofa cushions. The light outside had completely disappeared, and even though it wasn’t late, he was still very tired.

He sat very still, limbs aching. He took out his mobile but did nothing further with it. Since leaving London, he hadn’t checked in with the news, or with his guys down at the Met. After the Moriarty shock, he went away, refusing to look back. He didn’t want to deal with that, not on top of everything else. He was sticking to his plan.

Now he brooded, glass of water hardly touched. That awful self-pity was getting to him again, he thought, with a grotesque curl of his lip. The headache refused to go away, lingering menacingly for hours at a time. Sleep was the only time he could escape it. Suddenly, that sounded like a wonderful idea. He got up and went to the master bedroom, setting his glass on the nightstand.

He threw back all the blankets and covers and slowly undressed to his tee and pants. Then he got in, chilled and tired, and fell asleep.

***

He made tea. It was still chilly in the cottage but soon enough the radiators were doing their thing, after sitting idle for so long. His phone on the counter stayed silent. After he stirred the sugar in, he snatched a granola bar from his bag, grabbed his favourite navy jumper, and went outside.

He walked along the flat stones of the patio, sun bright, yet ineffective overhead. The sea was grey and uninviting, but so wonderful to gaze at. He set his meager breakfast down on the small patio table, and pulled the thick jumper over his head. It was cold, and desolate, but the damn sun kept shining.  He sat, staring out over the horizon, at the bleak sky and the crashing waves, and found a strange sort of peace.

It was calming, in a way. He felt completely alone, bereft of life or happiness, but the sea calmed him down, the dark waters mesmerizing and mysterious. He took a sip of his Twinings, barely registering the burning of his tongue. The wind periodically whipped at his face, and his fingers were starting to freeze, but he didn’t want to go inside. Not just yet.

Because of the crunching of his granola bar and the whirling wind around him, he hardly noticed the softer sounds of footsteps approaching. His eyes on the horizon he didn’t see the solitary figure slowly approaching, not until the tell-tale footfalls got louder.

Lestrade turned his head and froze.  

The vision in front of him must have been just that. A specter, or a figment of his depraved imagination. There’d be absolutely no logical way in hell he should find Sherlock Holmes standing in the garden of his family’s home, clad in slate grey trousers, Belstaff buttoned tight, collar up to his cheekbones, raven hair whipping back and forth. Cheeks and nose flushed red from the winter chill. Eyes like the sea, dark and stormy. Hands perpetually stuffed inside that great coat of his, his armor, really.

The vision spoke.

“Hello, Greg.”

He stood, eyes wide, startled. “Jesus.”

Sherlock’s lip curled at one corner. “No, sorry.”

His heart nearly gave out, as the specter in front of him was very much real. He clenched his jaw, mostly to prevent it from falling, but he couldn’t move from his spot. Sherlock must have seen something in his eyes, because he took a couple cautious steps closer.

Lestrade was now shaking, but it might have been from the cold. “I thought you’d left,” he swallowed harshly.

Sherlock’s head shifted slightly towards the sea, lips pursed. “I had. Left. I was in the air. And then I got a call from Mycroft. And the plane turned around.”

Lestrade frowned, eyes narrowed. “Why?” But he suddenly knew, and all he had to do was watch the shift in Sherlock’s eyes, pensive to malice.

“Moriarty,” he answered himself. “They must have seen...the video played everywhere, didn’t it?”

“Mmm,” was Sherlock’s dry reply. “I got the call telling me I had to return.”

Lestrade crossed his arms. “Why? Because he’s back, and you’re the only one who can stop him?” He didn’t mean for it to sound so caustic, but his blood was boiling. Sherlock shrugged minutely.

“I thought you said he was dead. You told me you watched him--”

“I know what I told you, and I know what I saw. I was there. I watched him take a gun and plunge it down his throat. I saw the blood covering the gravel on the roof, on his face,” he turned back towards Lestrade, eyes dark and calculating.

Lestrade sighed. “So how’d he do it, then?” he asked, genuinely curious. Another shrug. “I suspect that’s why I’ve been sent back.”

“For how long?” he whispered. Sherlock searched his face, the fire going out of his eyes, dulled and placid once more. “Indefinitely.”

His heart stuttered and he ducked his head, chin sliding under the collar of his jumper for warmth as he shifted his crossed arms higher. “So now what? How did you know where I was? I didn’t even tell my boss where I was going.”

Another quirk of his mouth, Sherlock’s eyes turning sly and playful. “Mycroft checked in with your family. When it was quickly surmised you weren’t where you claimed you would be, I knew you’d be here.”

“How?” he demanded. Sherlock looked at him in bemusement. “Because you told me once this was your favourite place to escape to.”

Lestrade blinked, glancing quickly away, uncomfortable. “Never thought you were actually listening. You were quite a mess back then.”

“I’m always listening.”

Lestrade turned back, a gust of wind chilling his body. He uncrossed his arms and stuffed his numb hands inside his denim pockets. “And what about Magnussen?”

Sherlock’s disposition soured, eyes growing cool. “What about him?”

“So that’s it then? He dies and no one is to blame and it’s all swept under the rug? What if someone finds out?”

“Then Mycroft will deal with it, as it would be one of his men that snitches. John won’t. Mary certainly won’t. You’re the only person that actually knows what happened that day,” his eyes flashed in challenge.

Lestrade shook his head. “Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock. Like you’d even have to ask that. Like I’d ever tell,” he spat, fists clenching inside his pockets.

“I wasn’t questioning, I was merely stating a fact. No one needs to know. I think we can all agree that we have bigger issues to deal with at present.”

The chill that coursed through him had nothing to do with the winter breeze. “How do you plan to do that?”

“I shall wait. If it’s true, Moriarty will come out of hiding soon enough. And then I’ll deal with it,” he simply said, eyes searching the expanse of sea. Lestrade sighed.

“I didn’t come here to talk about Moriarty,” Sherlock stated, eyes still casually on the water.

Lestrade’s heart picked up speed, fingers pricking with unease. “Then why?”

Sherlock licked his lips, just a quick flash of tongue, there and gone. “To apologise.”

He froze, unsure of where this was going to go. Uneasily, he pointed to an empty chair. “Sit.”

Sherlock did, after a beat, debating whether to listen or not. So he sat, back straight, hands still stuffed inside his expensive coat. Lestrade sat back down as well, trying not to fidget.

“I know you think me incapable, but I do feel remorse for pulling you into this Magnussen debacle.”

_Debacle_. Lestrade pursed his lips. Murder, to Sherlock, was a ‘debacle’. He refrained his sigh.

“There was no intent that evening. I only meant to barter, or at the most, frame Magnussen for theft. Mycroft’s laptop is quite possibly the most important piece of technology in all of the UK. I figured he’d salivate with glee if he saw I was serious.”

“But your plan didn’t work. Wouldn’t be the first time, though I didn’t really think you capable-”

“And that is your first mistake, Greg. You don’t _want_ to think of me as capable of murdering someone, but you’d be wrong. I wasn’t exaggerating my MI6 activities. I killed people. Moriarty’s men. And I was glad to do so, for what he put us through. I have no qualms. So what's one less pariah, leeching off of innocent victims simply for power? I don’t expect you to understand,” he said with a weary, snide sigh. “I simply wished to give something back to John, who stood by me, and never believed the rumours."

Lestrade glared. “That’s right, I forgot, he’s the only friend you’ve got,” he threw back with a sneer, and Sherlock looked at him, expression lost.

“Well, he _is_ ,” Sherlock declared with raised brows.

“You have some nerve, Holmes,” he growled, and suddenly, realization dawned on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh _god_ , please don’t tell me you’re this idiotic?” Lestrade gaped, eyes filled with indignation. Sherlock’s brows dipped. “Oh, honestly, Greg, you don’t actually think-”

“Sherlock, I seriously hope you didn’t come all this way, to my home, just to insult what we’ve had together,” he said in a dark voice, all steel and venom.

“That’s exactly my point!” Sherlock jumped out of his chair, briskly pacing back and forth. Lestrade watched, confused and irritated, and more than aggrieved.

“You think you feel betrayed by my omission but I assure you, it was consciously done, because while I consider John to be my greatest and closest friend, I do not believe I can place you near him.”

Oh it stung. To have it spelled out after so long. Finally. An answer to his long-debated question. But the truth was he was near fifty one years old and felt like his heart had just been trampled on, mockingly and brutally, without fanfare.

Everything he wanted to shout right now never made it past his lips as an unsettling calm came over him, and his blood turned cool with loathing. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes boring a hole into that genius brain of his.

“I’m not sure how you even thought coming here was a good idea, Sherlock. But you’ve pretty much eradicated whatever sympathy I might have had for your situation. It appears that my willingness to forgive is infinite in its nature when it comes to you. But now you need to get the fuck out of my house and as far away from me as humanly possible.” He clasped his hands on the small table in front of him, eyes staring calmly at the dark figure above him.

Sherlock’s body seemingly buckled, throat working compulsively. He put his arms out. “Greg.”

Lestrade very slowly closed his eyes, that last bit of restraint evaporating.

“Greg. You haven’t been listening.”

A tick was forming on his left temple, as his fingers squeezed together in prayer. Eyes opened wide.

“Are you serious? I think I’ve listened to quite enough. I’d really prefer if you shut up now and got out.”

“Greg, you of all people have to _see_ \-- I’d have thought you understood.” He paced, arms flapping madly at his sides, fingers splaying wide. He stopped again over Greg, eyes stormy and determined. “I can’t believe you don’t _see_!”

“What the fuck, Sherlock!” He sprang to his feet, thoroughly done with the caustic, cryptic rambling. He faced the younger man, even now breathtakingly beautiful. God he was pathetic. “What don’t I fucking see? What am I blind to now?”

Sherlock looked distressed, but more so flustered and nervous. His hands wiped across his mouth, a clear indication of falling apart. He licked his lips, taking a fast, laborious breath.

“You’re not like John, Greg. He could never be like you.”

Lestrade internally groaned. “Yes, got it! John’s perfect and loyal and I’m shit. Are we done?”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “ _God_...you’re still not listening. John’s my friend, yes but you, you…”

“I’m not.” he spat.”

“Yes. _No_. No, you’re not my _friend_ ,” and his arms spread out, encompassing the space around him.

He tensed, fists clenched at his sides. “Then what, Sherlock? What am I if not you’re friend?” He didn’t realize he was shouting until he saw the startled anguish on Sherlock’s face.

“ _Everything_.” Sherlock swallowed. “Everything. You are...everything.” He suddenly ducked his head, dark billowy curls obscuring his pale face. “I’d have thought it obvious,” he whispered, slipping his hands back inside his coat.

Lestrade stilled absolutely, so that he could actually hear the shuddering breath leave his lips. Sheer astonishment took over, rendering him speechless. Mouth agape, he brought his arm up, grabbing onto the back of the chair for steadiness, his heart threatening escape.

Sherlock was watching him now, face perfectly blank, serene. Waiting. Lestrade caught his eyes, his mouth working open, close, unable to form coherent words. His chest ached, but this time from too much elation, threatening to drown him, to break him.

“Sherlock,” he managed finally, throat clogged uncomfortably. “Did you just...are you actually telling me that you…” he couldn’t even say it, for that would make it real. And Sherlock would never be able to take it back.

Sherlock looked up towards the heavens, a deep sigh resonating. “Yes, and I’d rather we dispense with the sentiment, if you _don’t_ mind.”

Lestrade smiled, and that rapidly turned into a grin, too wide for his face, so long since he’d last felt anything like this. He tried to rein it in when he saw Sherlock’s face, dangerously bordering eye-roll stage. He looked down, biting his lip, taking a deep breath.

Finally he was calm enough to meet Sherlock’s face again. He put on his most serious expression, but was pretty sure he failed miserably. He slowly crept over to Sherlock’s still form. Swallowing around the large lump, he raised his arms, and brought his cool hands to Sherlock’s face, fingertips barely touching 

He searched those fathomless eyes for anything off, anything that he might have misinterpreted. But there was nothing but serenity, and yes, even a touch of affection. He leaned in, thumbs grazing cheekbones as the rest of his fingers tenderly caressed his neck, gently, fondly. His lips met Sherlock’s and it was perfect. It had always been perfect, but this was the first time that he felt utterly loved. And he had almost lost it all.

He withdrew, eyes softly closed as he breathed in Sherlock’s scent. It was intoxicating and he never wanted to be without it again.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I never realized, never thought--” He licked his lips, a deep frown creasing his brow. “I’m an idiot, I know. You were right. I should have known. I should have just trusted my instincts. There were times when I thought it might be true, and I was happy.”

“It’s probably my fault,” said Sherlock. “I’m not very good at this...relationship business,” he frowned, taking a deep huff. Lestrade pulled him in, arms wrapping possessively around his neck, fingers plunging through inky hair.

“We don’t have to define this, Sherlock. I don’t care about any of that. I just, I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t want to even think of that possibility. And I was fully prepared to be alone forever after you left. And I don’t know why we make sense, but I can’t stop thinking about you because you mean everything to me, too. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. You can stop me any time now,” he quipped, leaning back.

Sherlock looked bemused. “I’m aware,” he said, voice nearly swept away by the cool breeze. His cheeks and nose were pink with cold. “And that’s why I needed to come here. I needed to apologise,” he stated with all seriousness. “I know you’re angry. I know you can’t stand the thought of what I did to Magnussen. But after Mycroft called me back I barely spared him a glance before I dashed back to Scotland Yard. When they said you’d left, I went to Baker Street and called my brother to find you. Then I got on the train over here. I needed to see you.”

Lestrade clenched his jaw. “Are you really staying?”

“Only if you’ll still have me,” he said, almost shyly, but his eyes were glued to Lestrade’s. The older man took a breath and smiled in disbelief. “Now who’s the idiot?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened with mirth and he ducked his head before composing himself. Lestrade found himself chuckling at the sight. It was too surreal. He reached for Sherlock’s hand. “Come on, it’s bloody freezing out here.”

“Wait.” Sherlock’s face took on a serious tone and Lestrade stilled, eyes questioning.

“What is it?”

Sherlock looked down at Lestrade’s hand, a glacial expression overtaking his face. He licked his lips and looked up at Lestrade.

“Magnussen came to the hospital.”

Lestrade froze, unsure of where this was going.

“He came during the day and all I could do was lie there, drugged and lethargic.” Bitterness raged in his tone and his eyes were dark. “You don’t know, Greg. You never saw. This wasn’t a man. I was at my weakest then and he sat by my bed and he took my _hand,”_ he snarled, “and he brought my hand up to his mouth, like a promise, or a threat.”

Lestrade’s blood chilled as he stared at the younger man, watched as his face turned to revulsion, to hatred. It was deeply unsettling and frankly horrifying. He looked down at their hands again and he squeezed. Sherlock blinked, as if he were lost in his own raging thoughts.

“You don’t know, Greg. The depravity that was within him. You don’t know what he would have done. To John and Mary. To me. He would have seen. Sooner or later he would have seen it. Seen you. And I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

Lestrade felt ill. He rubbed a thumb across Sherlock’s palm, attempting to erase the memory of Magnussen’s touch. Just the thought of this man laying his hands on Sherlock so intimately. How he _dared_ … Pure hatred coursed through him, and he pulled Sherlock in, enveloping him, wanting to feel him close and near. And Sherlock obliged.

Long fingers clawed at his back, his neck. Cool, dry lips smashed against his own, merciless and desperate. Lestrade returned in kind, hands fisting Sherlock’s hair almost painfully. Out of breath he pulled back, staring at the flushed face in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered raggedly. “I didn’t realize…” He shook his head, attempting to rid his mind of the cringe-worthy images springing forth. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to explain, Sherlock.” He stepped back slightly, to properly look at Sherlock. “John was right. I would have given anything to have you back,” he said resolutely. “Anything else doesn’t matter.”

“You’re going to tell me it doesn’t bother you? What I did?”

Lestrade sighed. “You’re a good person, Sherlock. This much I know. And I’ve known you for years. You can’t convince me otherwise,” he said with a soft smirk. “I told you that I trust you and that’s still true today. And you’re _here,_ he emphasized.

“I am,” Sherlock said, eyes placid and bright. The younger detective briefly looked away, composure wavering. “And I’d rather stay a while, if you don’t mind.”

Lestrade smiled. “I’d never mind.”

Sherlock’s face was warm with relief, eyes unbelievably open and content. “Shall we then?” he asked, his head inclining towards the house.

“What about Moriarty?” Lestrade suddenly asked, eyes dark with worry. A flash of unease crossed Sherlock’s face before it melted into another smile. A slow-spreading, lascivious smirk that caused Lestrade’s pulse to escalate.

Sherlock reached for Lestrade’s hand, long, chilled fingers grasping firmly as he slowly led the older man towards the door.

“Moriarty can wait, I think.”

Lestrade nodded automatically, following Sherlock indoors, away from the frost and the wind. Away from the outside world. Even now he was being led blindly. He stared down at their clasped hands, watched as Sherlock threw a sly smirk over his shoulder, and suddenly didn’t care.

He already knew it was futile to fight it. He’d follow Sherlock anywhere.

End.

 


End file.
